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Hitherto no attempt has been made to illustrate 
the Poetical Works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 

Separate poems, the " Ancient Mariner," " Christa-\ 
bel," and " The Raven " have furnished materials for 
the artist, and there is a volume of Selections edited by- 
Mr. Andrew Lang with designs by Mr. Patten Wilson, 
but there is no illustrated edition of the poems as a 
whole. There is no " illustrated Coleridge." And 
yet there is hardly any poet who is so entirely passive 
of illustration. Rossetti, himself both poet and 
painter, maintained that Coleridge at his best was 
" a pictorial artist, a spiritualised Turner." He is,} 
indeed, an artist by " titles manifold," a child of the 
kingdom of nature, a painter and interpreter o^ 
visionary goings on, a seer of things hidden from the\ 
sensual eye. 

" My mind," he says, " makes pictures." Nature | 
had given him at his birth a " shaping spirit of the 



imagination," and in so far as he fulfilled his mission 
as a poet he transfigured and made visible the shape, 
and forms of that sj)iritual activity. In his Pre- 
face to " Kubla Khan " Coleridge says that " the 
images rose up before him as things, with a parallel 
production of the correspondent expressions." The 
" Ancient Mariner," and the First Part of " Christa- 
bel " translate into audible language a succession of 
r)ictures, scenes which fiashcd upon " his inward 

leye," and which seem to have taken place in an 
unseen world before they were reported and embodied 
in \xrse. 

Ic looked into the soul of things, seeking after 
and finding in the world outside himself a response 
to the solicitations of his own being. It was his aim, 
at iirst an unconscious aim, to fix and delineate these 
natural symbols of the identity of thought and 
things, and long before he rose to his full stature 
as a poet, he gave proof of this inborn power of 
di\'mation. ^One of his earliest poems, is a " Sonnet 
to the Ayftfnunal IMoon," a school-bo}^ poem written 
at Christ's Hospital, where, as he says, he " saw 
nought lovely but the sky and stars." But this 
he saw — first the glimmering of the half-veiled moon, 
then the gradual oncoming of " the gathered black- 
ness," and, then, " the sudden brilliance when the 
full orb darted from the wind-rent cloud," detecting 
in these sky-changes a similitude to the dawn, the 

/eclipse, and the reappearance of Hope. The thought 
is not very profound, but the drawing, the com- 
position, is true to nature. It is the work of an 
artist. Or take these lines in loving remembrance 
of the River OtUr 

. . . mine eyes 
I never shut amid the sunny ray 
But straif^ht with all their tints thy waters rise. 

Thy crossing i^hink, thy marge with willows grey, 
And bedded sand that \cined with various dyes 
C'lUameil through thy bright transpai-cncc. 


Here, at least, is the saying true, " Beauty is 
Truth, Truth Beauty," Here, in more senses than 
one Nature takes his pen and writes for him. Or 
take this image of a soul apart which has its hght , 

from above, but shines for itself alone : ^ 

Here, far from, men, amid this pathless grove, 
In solemn thought the Minstrel wont to rove, 
Like star-beam on the slow sequester' d tide 
Lone glittering, thro' the high tree branching wide. 

This, of course, is Coleridge /)r^-incarnated in 
Chatterton. " High tree " is not good verse, and the 
metaphor is far-fetched, but the star-beam did not 
glitter in vain. Micat et Micahit. The much- 
despised juvenile poems with their frigid conceits, 
their " profusion of double epithets and a general 
turgidness," are full of these redeeming touches, these 
intimations of inborn genius. 

Critics have dwelt on the surprising and almost 
miraculous difference in kind as well as in degree, in 
beauty, in power and in originality between so re- 
markable a poem as the "Ode to the Departing Year," 
which was written at the close of 1796, and so won- 
derful a poem as the "Ancient Mariner," which was 
begun ten months later, in November 1797. Some 
would have it that the " new song " was put into his 
mouth by Wordsworth, and others are satisfied or 
relieved by the simpler theory that the arch-magician , t 
was opium. Whatever was the cause the fact 
remains that like one of his own anapaests Coleridge 
sprang " with a leap and a bound " to the height of his 
power,if not of his fame. For not long after became to 
Stowey, and after he betrays the influence of Words- 
worth both in style and thought, he wrote at least two 
acts of Osorio (better known as Remorse), two or 
three meditative poems and, it may be, his ballad of 
" The Three Graves," which are poetical enough, but 
can hardly be reckoned as a first instalment of his 



great delivery. Now these, too, are illuminated by 
miniatures of rare design and exquisite colouring. 
In the lines addressed to his brother George, which 
he prefixed as a dedication to the Second Edition of 
his Poems, there is a picture of a corner in his garden 
at Nether-Stowey, that plot of " scanty soil " which 
was to have grown all manner of herbs, but grew, in- 
stead, a crop of weeds, and an object-lesson forCitizen 
Thulwall on undisciplinary education. It is a picture 
of the Passing of Spring, and it tells its own tale : 

We in our sweet sequestered orchard-plot 

Sit on the tree crooked earth-ward, whose old boughs. 

That hang above us in an arborous roof, 

Stirred by the faint gale of departing May, 

Send their loose blossoms slanting o'er our heads ! 

Some six weeks later in " This Lime-Tree Bower my 

' Prison," he makes us feel that summer is come, and 

that " the glorious Sun " is shining on his enchanted 

-garden. Here there is a minuter, if not a more faith- 

/ ful, observation of nature, a foretaste of that intimate 

: perception of her works and ways which rewarded 

tlie sight and insight of the authors of tlie Lyrical 


Nor in this bower 
This little lime-tree bower, have I not marked 
Much tliat has soothed me. Pale beneath the blaze 
Hung the transparent foliage ; and I watched 
Some broad and sunny leaf, and loved to seo 
The shadow of the leaf and stem above. 
Dappling its sunshine — 

(^Another specimen of his earlier word-painting is to 
be found in Osorio at the end of the Second Act. I 
do not know if this fantastic scene is drawn from 
nature, or is, indeed, a work of art. If the first two 
acts of Osorio had not been written before the 
memorable visit to Racedown in June 1797, it might 
be guessed that Wordsworth, or his sister Dorothy, 
had told him how Launchy Beck is reflected by 


Thirlmere, and that its shadow curls " upward " 
through the mirrored woods of Fisher's Crag. But the 
odds are that he was only " dreaming that which is " : 

It is a small green, dale 
Built all around with high off -sloping hills, 
And from its shape our peasants aptly call it 
The Giant's Cradle. There's a lake in the midst, 
And round its banks tall wood, that branches over 
And makes a kind of faery forest grow 
Down in the water. At the further end . 
A puny cataract falls on the lake ; 
And then (a curious sight) you see the shadow 
For ever curling, like a wreath of smoke 
Up through the foliage of those faery trees. 

So far Coleridge had proved that he could observe 
and reproduce those happier accidents of natural 
loveliness which, seen by the poet's eyes, " become 
a part of sight." Thousands and tens of thousands 
of men and women who were or were not of a poetic 
turn had seen and perhaps marked the " slanting 
blossoms " floating downwards from the apple-trees, 
but he and he alone had been minded thus to sym- 
bolise the passing of spring. But a greater inspira- 
tion was at hand. A time had come when, out of 
the abundance of his " happy heart," he was to 
conceive and represent a chain of events, imaginary 
and yet real, contrary to experience, and, yet, 
conditioned by laws of its own constitution. 
Ancient Mariner " is a visionary poem, the metrical 
record of scenes and happenings witnessed by the 

: inward eye and reported by the seer for our instruc- 
tion and illumination, but it has neither the incohe- 
rence nor the unsubstantiality of a dream. The 

i ingredients, the beggarly elements of the magic 
potion which is set before us may be analysed and 
tabulated for the benefit of the curious. There is 
nothing mysterious or unaccountable in the com- 
position of the poem. Stanza after stanza reveals 


a deliberate use of appropriate materials supplied 
or suggested by the books, the places, the sights and 
sounds which ministered to the thoughts and fancies 
of the waking man. What then was the immediate 
source of the inspiration ? " The Time, the clime, 
the spot ! " The " Ancient ^lariner " was talked into 
shape by Wordsworth, Dorothy and Coleridge as 
they made their way, late in the afternoon in 
November from Alfoxden to Watchet, a decayed sea- 
port on the Bristol Channel. It was the first da}' of 
a holiday and the three friends were full of hope and 
happiness. Then and there, at Watchet, " by the 
sea-shore," doubtless at the Bell Inn, the poem was 

^.^^^o far as we know the last work of any importance 
to which Coleridge had set his hand was the latter 
half of the fifth act of Osorio. He had been working 
against the grain on a task which he knew was beyond 
his powers, but he had taken occasion to utter a 
I word of prophecy. The last act breaks off with a 
vision of redeeming woe : 

The deep foundations of iniquity. 

Should sink away, earth groaning frona beneath theni ; 

The strongholds of the Cruel Men should fall. 

Their teniples and their mountainous towers should fall ; 

Till Desolation seemed a beautiful thing ; 

And all that icote and had the spirit of life 

Sang a nciv song to Her who had gone forth 

Cpntjfuering and still to conquer. 

The " Ancient Mariner " is a ballad of redemption 
through the response of the Spirit of man, not only 
to " everything whicff hath breath " but to the 
, power and beaut}', the " invisible natures " of 
^ earth and air and sea. A day came when Coleridge 
confessed that in a i)ui\ly imaginative work the 
moral should be in al)t'yauc(.' and that the " Ancient 
Mariner" is over moralised, but in these " dawii 
golden days" it was the moral which burnt within 


him, and it was because that fire kindled that 
spake with his tongue. 

Whilst he was at work upon Osorio perhaps by 
way of interlude or distraction, he had taken to the 
study of early English poetry, steeping himself in 
Percy's " Reliques," in Chaucer, in the " Romaunt of 
the Rose," in Skelton and Surrey and Wyatt. He 
had drunk deep of the springs and wells of Romance, 
a cup of purification and enchantment. Fresh from 
this draft of living water he suffered his imagination 
to present to his mind's eye, a succession of pictures 
which rose for him and not another because he had 
cultivated the seer's art, and, as the vision floated 
before him, he brought his reason to bear on what i 
was given to him, fusing the parts into an organic | 
whole, and representing the casual and the dis- ) 
connected as unquestionable and inevitable and 
real. In a word he knew what he was about. The 
shapes were none of his, but the shaping was all his 
own. It was his power of visualising what he had 
seen, what he had read, what he had perceived, / 
but not with the sensual eye, which makes the 
" Ancient Mariner" (and in a still greater degree, the 
First Part of " Christabel ") not so much a tale that is 
told as a spectacle at which we are present. We see , 
and believe. 

Between these masterpieces and the marvellous 
fragment of " Kubla Khan " there is an essential 
difference. We are told, but we hardly need telling, 
that it was. composed " during a profound sleep, at 
least of the external senses " ; that it is a dream- 
poem. Here, too, the successive images may be \ 
traced to their sources in various books of travel,/ 
but they rise unbidden and without the seer's 
will. They come like shadows, so depart. " Kubla 
Khan " is what Coleridge called it " a psycho- 
logical curiosity." It is a "case" of abnormal 
cerebration. Such an experience could only befall 


a man of peculiar gifts — habituated to the exercise 
of these gifts, but it befell Coleridge because he 
( was under the influence of " an anodyne." It 
was, indeed, the suspension of the determining 
will, the trance of the artificer which surrendered 
the visionary fabric to the diviner handiwork of 

After he was turned thirty Coleridge seldom broke 
silence as a poet, and the verse which now and 
again escaped him was, for the most part, of an 
introspective and meditative character. He con- 
cerned himself less and less with this fair earth and 
its divinities, and sought for consolation and 
encouragement in metaphysical and theological 
/research. It has been argued that his imagination 
■was narcotised, that opium took away what it 
had at first bestowed, the creative energy. The 
theory is simple but by no means conclusive. He 
said himself that it was the passing away of " joy " 
which robbed him of his poetic birthright. It is 
probable that if " sickness," both the cause and 
the effect of the opium-habit, had not " besieged him 
close, even to the gates and inlets of his life," he 
might have left a richer legacy of verse, but, even 
so, there would have been, as Lamb once put it, 
"No more Christahcls and Ancient Mariners.'' A 
happier manhood might have sustained and pro- 
longed his poetic faculties but the radiance of his 
prime was of the dew of the morning. It was the 
ornament of his youth But in the darkest hours 
of his troubled middle life and at its peaceful close 
there were moments of inspiration when his mind 
made pictures of heavenly and of earthly things. 
In Zapolya, which was written at Calne in 1815, 
there are embedded two lyrics, a love-song, and a 
war-cry. In the first we have a glimpse of Paradise. 
It cannot be paraphrased, and it can hardly be 
quoted too often. 



A sunny shaft did I behold, 

From sky to earth it slanted : 
And poised therein a bird so bold — 

Sweet bird thou wert enchanted : 

He sank, he rose, he twinkled, he trolled, 
Within that shaft of sunny mist ; 

His eyes of fire, his beak of gold, 
All else of amethyst ! 

In the other there is a touch of Nature, a cottage- 
scene of tender homehness : 

Leave the hearth and leave the house 
To the cricket and the mouse ; 
Find grannam out a sunny seat, 
With babe and lambkin at her feet. 
Not a soul at home must stays 

Again, in 1824, in the fragment entitled, " The 
''Advent of Love," or " Love's First Hope " which 
begins with a metrical version of a sentence taken 
from Sidney's " Arcadia " there are two lines which 
are in the strictest sense of the word an idyll — a 
little picture or likeness of Love in Harvest. 

O fair is Love's first hope to gentle mind ! 

. . . the sultry hind 
Meets it with brow uplift, and stays his reaping. 

A more finished though as lovely a picture is 
contained in the closing lines of the " Garden of 
Boccaccio," which was written to illustrate an 
illustration by Stothard. We might name it "The 
Sphit of the Renaissance, An Allegorical Design." 

Still in thy garden let me watch their pranks, 
And see in Dian's vest between the ranks 
Of the trim vines, some maid that half believes 
The vestal fires, of which her lover grieves 
With that sly satyr peeping through the leaves. 

No artist or illustrator can hope to reproduce the 
pictures which rose up before the poet's eye. He 
will rather endeavour to interpret one picture by 


another, to make the art of the poet an occasion for 
the " correspondent expressions " of the art of 
the designer. He should be nearer to the poet than 
the general and should, as it were, repeat and 
transmit his message. It will, I think, be admitted 
that the artist who has illustrated this volume 
has caught the spirit of the poems which he has 
endeavoured to interpret, and has followed where 
the poet led. 

The present edition contains all poems hitherto 
jiublished which are not subject to the law of 
(-ojiyright. Two or three short poems have been 
included which have appeared in newspapers but 
are now collected for the first time. Save for 
the second part of " Christabel," written in 1800, 
but attached to the first part, which belongs to 
1798, the order of the poems is strictly chronolo- 
gical. It IS believed that the sequence of the several 
poems has been preserved with greater exactness 
and particularity than has, hitherto, been attained 
or attainable. The final cause of an illustrated 
edition of a poet's works is to give pleasure rather 
than instruction, and with this object in view, a 
new but, of course, absolutely faithful text has 
l">C(>n chosen and prepared. Over and above a first 
j)ublication in newspapers at least six editions of 
"Poems or Poetical Works" passed under the 
author's supervision or revision. Unlike Words- 
worth Coleridge almost alwa3's altered and emended 
for the better, and on the principle that the latest 
text is the best the edition of 18^4 has, for the most 
part been adopted ; but, inasmuch as a synopsis of 
variants, additions and omissions would be out o 
place in an illustrated edition, cMch poem has been 
regarded as a sei)arate composition and one out o 
many texts has been chosen. 

Ill the lines entitled, "A Walk before Supper," 
and in two poems of later years, " The Reproof andB 


the Reply " and " Sancti Dominici Pallium," blank 
spaces for names have been filled up and textual 
corrections have been made in accordance with MS. 
authority and from information derived from 
unpublished documents. 

A few poems bearing "Editorial" titles have 
been renamed by the present editor. 

In the First Part of " Christabel," quotation 
marks have been affixed to lines spoken in character. 
The omission of these marks in the first and all 
subsequent editions is inconsistent with their 
normal and invariable use in the Second Part of the 

Coleridge's poems may be divided into three 
classes. There are those six or seven great master- 
pieces " his highest work," of which Mr. Swinburne 
has affirmed that "the world has nothing like them 
and can never have." There is a motley crowd of 
juvenilia and epigrams which may not be excluded 
from a collected edition, but are of little value or 
interest save to the biographer or the critic. And 
between these two extremes there are three or four 
score poems, lyrics, idylls, or meditative pieces, 
instinct with his peculiar genius, which are seldom 
reckoned as great poetry because it cannot be said 
of them that " such melodies were never heard, such 
dreams never dreamed, such speech never spoken," 
because they are printed in the same volume with 
"Christabel," and "The Ancient Mariner." It is 
hoped that this attempt to illustrate Coleridge's 
poems, as a whole, will lead to a closer study and 
a juster appreciation of his great as well as his 
greatest achievement as a poet. 

Ernest Hartley Coleridge. 



Hlegy on a Lady who died in Early Youth 

Sonnet to the Autumnal Moon . 


Anthem for the Children of Christ's Hospital 
Julia ....... 

The Nose ....... 

To the Muse ...... 

^Destruction of the Bastile 


Monody on a Tea-kettle 
Progress of Vice 
Music .... 








Anna and Henkv ..... 

To THE Evening Star ..... 
On receiving an Account that his only Sister's 

Death was Inevitable .... 
Inside the Coach ..... 

Devonshire Roads . . . ... 

T.IKE / 

J^JUJIODV ON_TIlji^Di:,VJ" •"' (ii attfrton. 
Pain . . ' . 

Genevieve ....... 


HONOL'K ...... 

On Imitation ..... 

HArPINESS ...... 

Euclid |iN Rhyme .... 

Sonnet : o.\ Quitting School for College 
Absence : a Farewell Odk on quitting School 
for Jesus College, Cambridge 

On seei^jg a Youth affectionately welcomed by 
a Sikter ... ... 

Writte?! after a Walk before Supper 

With 1"ii;i. ding's " Amelia " .... 

Imitated from Ossian . 
The Complaint ok Minathuma 
The Rose .... 
Kisses .... 

The (iEntle Look 


Lines to a beautiful Spring in a \"ii i aci-; 
-p^ Songs OK THE Pi .\ IKS 
V/'-«NKs ON AN Autumnal ICviining 

Thic Kiss .... 


Links to a I-'kilnd in Answiu to a Miclanchoi.v 
I.i:tti:k ....... 


12 \ 













31 ' 





.Ai) Lnkam 

.-. 38 
r 39 

■■: 40 



To Lesbia ....... 

The Death of the Starling 


morienti superstes ..... 

The Sigh ....... 

Lines the " King's Arms," Ross 
Imitated from the Welsh .... 

Domestic Peace ...... 

Elegy, imitated from Akenside . 

Translation of Wrangham's Hendecasyllables 

To Miss Brunton ..... 

Epitaph on an Infant .... 

On a Discovery made Too Late . 
To A Young Lady, with a Poem on the French 
Revolution ..... 

e^o a Youjstg Ass ..... 

The Faded Flower . . • . 

The Outcast ..... 

On a Friend who died of a Frenzy Fever induced 

BY calumnious REPORTS 

fc-.To the Author of " The Robbers " . 
I To a Friend together with an Unfinished Poem 
Sonnets to Eminent Characters 

To the Honourable Mr. Erskine . 

Burke ...... 

y<PRIESTLEY ..... 

JL^pTo^THE Rev. W. L. Bowles ,,. 

La Fayette ..... 

koskiusko ..... 

To Richard Brinsley Sheridan, Esq. 
2?To William Godwin 
/^To Robert Southey 

Pitt ...... 

Mrs. Siddons .... 

To Earl Stanhope 
VReligious Musings .... 


iS=^N the Prospect of establishing a Pantisocracy 
IN America . - .— ^ .... 

To'PoVERTY ....... 

























73 1 / 



3(nv ^A 



To THE Rev. W. J. H. while teaching a Young 

Lady some Song-Tunes on his Flute 
Pity ......... 

-t,. To THE NiGH jii^jfi^y F . 

^^-XiNES composed while Climbing the Left Ascent 

of Brockley Coomb ..... 90 

Lines in the Manner of Spenser . . -91 ^ 

^ThE EOLI.\ N^Jj^\K£ ' . i _ ; Q 2 

The HoulTwHEN we shall Meet again ... 94 
To the Author of Poems published anonymously 

at Bristol ....... 95 

The Silver Thi.mble ...... 97 

Lines written at Shurton Bars, near Bridge- 
r W.\TER ........ 

'[""-^Reflections on having left a Place of Retire- 

MENT ■ . . , - -JS}^ 

To AN Infant ....... 105 

On observing a Blossom on the First of February 

1796 ........ 105 

Vkr Perpetuum . . . . . . .106 

To A Primrose, the first seen in the Season . 107 
Verses addressed to J. Horne Tooke . . loS 

To A Friend who has declared his intention of 

WRITING no more PoETRY .... lOQ 

To A Young Frii;nd on his proposing to domesti- 
cate WITH THE Author . . . . . . 1 1 1 

O Sonnet on receiving .\ Letter informing me of 

THE Birth of a Son . . . . . ii-i 

Sonnet composed on a Journey homeward ; the 
Author having received intelligence of thi- 

Birth of a Son . . . . . . i i\ 

Sonnet to a Friknd who asked, how I felt when "^^I* 

THE Nurse first presented my Infant to me. i 15 

Fi'iTAi'n ON AN Infant . . . . . . i i() 

Address to a Young Man of Fortune who ahan- \ 

doned himself to a Causeless Melancholy . 1 16 

Sonnet to Charles Lloyd . . . . 1 i\ 

On a t.atk Connubial Rupture in High I. in- 117 
'Iiiic Destiny of Nations ..... tTTS^ 

JJdi: tu the Pi I 'AhTiNiiYjiAK..- • '.i3 




To AN Unfortunate Woman whom the Author had 

KNOWN IN the Days of her Innocence . 
To an Unfortunate Woman at the Theatre 
On the Christening of a Friend's Child 
Translation of a Latin Inscription by the Rev 

W. L. Bowles in Nether-Stowey Church 
JTTo the Rev. George Coleridge of Ottery St 
^ Mary, Devon ..... 

P^his Lime-t ree Bower my Prison 
The Foster-Mother's Tale . . . . < 

The Dungeon ...... 

Lines to W. L., Esq., while he sang a Song to 

Purcell's Music ..... 
Sonnets attempted in the manner of Contem 

porary Writers ..... 
The Three Graves ..... 
^^The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 
Melancholy : a Fragment 

Parliamentary Oscillators 
Ubi Thesaurus Ibi Cor .... 

Fire, Famine and Slaughter : a War Eclogue 
To a Young Lady on her Recovery from a Fever 
j^-^ROST AT Midnight ^ _ 

The Old Man of the Alps . 
The Raven : a Christmas Tale 



142 ■ '" 


'Lewti, or The Circassian Love-Chant 
NCE : AN Ode ^ . /. 



EARS IN Solitude 

HE Nightingale : a Conversation Poem 
Introduction to the Tale of the Dark Ladik 
^The Ballad of the I)ark Ladie . 
Christabel ....... 

The Wanderings of Cain 

Kubla Khan ,^ ^ 

Recantation, illustrated in the Story of the 

Mad Ox 
Poetical Fragments . 










27 I 






Tell's Birthplace 

The British Stripling's War-Song 
\ Job's Luck 
\" "On a Cataract 

The Visit of the Gods 
From the German 
Westphalian Song 
Water Ballad 

^he Exchange 
Translation of a Passage in Ottfried's Metrical 

Paraphrase of the Gospel . 
On an Infant which died before Baptism 
Something Childish but very Natural 
Home-sick : Written in Germany 
Lines written in the Album at Elbingerode, in 

the Hartz Forest. 
The Day-dream from an Emigrant to his Absent 

Wife ...... 

Hymn to the Earth .... 

Mahomi-t ...... 

Catullian Hendecasvllables 
The Homeric Hexameter . . . , 

The Ovidian Elegiac Metre 
The Devil's Thoughts ... 

Lines composed in a Concert-Room 

ALC-^iUS TO Sappho ..... 
Ode to Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire 
A Christmas Carol ..... 



Talleyrand to Lord Grenville 
I-Ipistlk .... 

SoNc; : PiccoLOMiNi 
•— .\poLOGiA pro Vit.V Sua 

The Keepsake .... 
Udk Tt) Tkanquii.litv . 

A Metrical 









A Thought suggested by a View of Saddleback 
IN Cumberland ...... 

A Stranger Minstrel ...... 

The Two Round Spaces on the Tombstone . 

The Mad Monk ....... 

On revisiting the Sea-shore, after long Absence 






ECTiONi., AN Ode .... 
The Picture, or the Lover's Resolution 
N Ode to the Rain .... 


Hymn before S^jnexsb, in the Vale of Chamouny 
To Matilda Betham, from a Stranger. 
Inscription for a Fountain on a Heath 
The Reward of the Just . . . " , 

^^nswer to a Child's Question . . . 

The Happy Husband ..... 
■A Day-Dream ...... 

*The Pains of Sleep ...... 

An ^Angel Visitant ...... 

Constancy to an Ideal Object .... 

Phantom ........ 

1 80s 
What is Life ?....... 

The Blossoming of the Solitary Date-Tree 


Farewell to Love ...... 

Metrical Feet : Lesson for a Boy 


^ To William Wordsworth, composed on the Night 
after his Recitation of a Poem on the 
Growth of an Individual Mi nd . 

"The Pang more Sharp than All . 

Recollections of Love ..... 

To Two Sisters : a Wanderer's Farewell . 




343 < 








A Child's Evening Prayer 

VToMBLEss Epitaph 


The Visionary Hope 

^<i^ The Vision. 
^^ — Separation 


The Virgin's Cradle-Hymn 

To a Lady offended by a Sportive Observ 

that Women have no Souls . 
Reason for Love's Blindness 
The Suicide's Argument 


Psyche ...... 

- Time, Real and Imaginary . 
An Invocation. From " Remorse " 


The Night-Scene : a Dramatic Fragment . 

— A Hymn ....... 

To A Lady with Falconer's " Shipwreck " . 
[Ii'MAN Life: on the Denial of Immortality 


^ Song sung by Glycine. From " Zapolya " 
I, Choral Song. From " Zapolya " 
To Nature ...... 

.\ Sibylline Leak. From " Heraclitus " 
'J"hi: Dark Side of Nati'ric 


Jri'iiE Knight's Tomi; 
Israel's Lamicnt . 










37 S 






lolo PAGE 

On Donne's Poetry ...... 380 


•-Fancy IN NuBiBus ...... 380 

What is Reason ? . , . . . .381 


The Tears of a Grateful People . . .381 
Hymn 384 


S Youth and Age . . . . . . -385 


The Reproof and Reply ..... 386 

j 1824 

Desire ........ 388 

First Advent of Love ..... 388 

To Edward Irving . . . . . -389 


■^Alice du Clos, or The Forked Tongue . . 389 

Lines to a Comic Author, on an Abusive Review 395 

Sancti Dominici Pallium ..... 396 

Ne Plus Ultra . . . . . . . 398 

Love, a Sword ....... 399 

A Character ....... 399 


An Unwilling Witness,* Epos- dii XdXrjdpns: tTalpos . 401 

Duty surviving Self-Love ..... 402 

<s The Two Founts . . . ... . 402. 

Lines suggested by the Last Words op Beren- 

GARius ....... 404 

Epitaphium Testamentarium .... 405 


he Improvisatore ...... 406 

VORK WITHOUT HoPE . . . . . . 412 





The Garden of Boccaccio .... 

Cologne ....... 

On my joyful Departure from the same City 
Rheinwein ...... 

Charity in Thought ..... 


Song, " ex Improviso " . . . . 


Verses to Miss A. T. . 
-"TS Love, Hope, and Patience in Education 

Lines written in Commonplace Book of Miss 
Barbour ....... 


Love and Friendship Opposite 

Not at Home 

Phantom or Fact 

The Three Sorts of Friends 

To Baby Bates . 

Inscription for a Time-piece 

Humility the Mother of Charity 


True Self-knowledge 

Charity the Daughter of Hu.mility 

Love's Apparition and Evanishment . 
Love's Burial-Place .... 
To the Young Artist, Kavskk of Kaserwerth 


Epitaiii ...... 


Epigrams and " Jicux d'kspuit " 

Iniucx to the Poems 













Half-title i 

"Alone, alore, all, all alone, 
Alone on a wide wide sea ! " . . . . Frontispiece 

Title-page iii 

Heading : Introduction . . ...... v 

Tailpiece ........... xv 

Tailpiece ........... xvi 

Heading : Contents ......... xvii 

Heading : Illustrations ........ xxvii 

Vignette ........... xxxii 

Heading ........... i 

"Even on the Cold Grave Lights the Cherub Hope ! " To face z 

Heading : Sonnet to the Autumnal Moon .... 2 

" No more the Tea shall pour its fragrant steam around ! " . 9 



Heading: Life 15 

Heading : Monody on the Death of Chatterton ... 16 

" And we, at sober eve, would round thee throng". To face 20 

Heading : Genevieve ........ 22 

Heading : On seeing a youth affectionately welcomed by a 

sister ........ 33 

Heading: Sonnet to the River Otter ..... 39 

Tailpiece : Lines to a Beautiful Spring in a Village . . 41 

" On leaves of aspen trees 
We tremble to the breeze " ....... 44 

Heading : Domestic Peace 57 

Heading : To the Honourable Mr. Erskine . . . . 6S 

Tailpiece: Reflections on having left a place of retirement . 104 

Heading : To a young friend on his proposing to domesticate 

with the author . . . . .111 

Tailpiece : To a young friend on his proposing to domesticate 

with the author ...... 113 

" Pity there had oft and strongly work'd, 
And sometimes Indignation " .... To face 122 

Tailpiece: The Destiny of Nations . . . .132 

" By the earth's unsolaced groaning 
Seize thy terrors, Arm of might ! "' . . . To face 136] 

Tailpiece : To the Kev. George Coleridge .... 144] 

ThbThhf.k Graves 

Heading: Part HI 155J 

" Heneath the foulest Mother's curse 
No child could c\ er thrive " . . . . 

" She had a sore grief of her own, 
A haunting in her brain " . 

" And once her buth arms suddenly 
Round Mary's neck she flung "... 

" ' A mother too ! ' these self-same words 
Did Kiiward mutter plain " .... 

The Ancient Mariner 

Vignette .... . . 

Heading and border ..... 

" The l>ri(le hath paced into the hall " 

To face 


To face 




To face 










"And every day, for food or play, 
Came to the mariner's hollo ! " 

To face 172 

Heading: Part II. ....... . 173 

"The very deep did rot : O Christ ! 
That ever this should be ! 
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs 
Upon the slimy sea " . . . . . . -174 

" Day after day, day after day, 
We stuck, nor breath nor motion ; " 

" And every tongue, through utter drought 
Was withered at the root " 

Heading : Part III 

" When looking westward I beheld 
A something in the sky " . 

" ' The game is done ! I've won ! I've won 

Tailpiece : Part III. 

Heading: Part IV. : "The many men so beautiful ! 

And they all dead did lie : " . 

" The self-same moment I could pray ; 
And from my neck so free 
The Albatross fell off, and sank 
Like lead into the sea" 

To face 


To face 






To face 

1 78 



" The body and I pulled at one rope. 
But he said nought to me "... 

" And now 'twas like all instruments. 
Now like a lonely flute ; 
And now it is an angel's song, 
That makes the heavens be mute " . 

Tailpiece : Part V. : "I heard, and in my soul 

Two voices in the air" 

To face 

To face 


Heading : Part VI 

" A man all light, a seraph man, 
On every corse there stood " . 

" The holy hermit raised his eyes. 
And prayed where he did sit " . 

"Oh shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man ! 

" I pass, like night, from land to land : 
I have strange power of speech ; 
That moment that his face I see, 
I know the man that must hear me : 
To him mv tale I teach " . 

To face 
To face 



1 84 



1 88 






To face 

" But in the garden-bower the bride 
And bride-maids singing are '' . 

•' To walk together to the kirk 
With a goodly company I " 

Heading : Melancholy ..... 

Heading : Fire, Famine and Slaughter . 

" On as I strode with my huge strides " 

" Round and round flew the raven, and cawed to the blast" 

To face 

Heading : Lewti ......... 

Tailpiece: Lewti ......... 

Heading: P'ears in Solitude ....... 

Heading: Introduction to the Tale of the Dark Ladiu . 

Heading: The Ballad of the Hark Ladie . . . . 


Heading : Part the First ....... 

" There she sees a ilamsel bright. 
1 )ressed in a silken robe of white " 

" She rose : and forth with steps they passed 
That strove to be, and were not, fast '" 

" Christabel, with might and main 
I-iftCil her up, a weary weight. 
Over the threshold of the gate" 

Heading : The Conclusion to Part the First 

Heading : Part the Second 

'• Puts on her silken vestments white, 
And tricks her hair in lovely plight " 

" With somewhat of malice, and more of dread 
At Christabel she looked askance ! " . 

Tailpiece : "The aged knight. Sir Leoline, 

Led forth the lady (ieraldine ! " 

Tailpiece to Part the Second 

" There was one rock by itself " 
He.ailing : Kubl.a Khan ..... 
Heading : Lines composed in a Ci>ncerl-Koom 
" These feel not Music's genuine power " . 







• 235 
To face 236] 
. . 238* 

To face 

To face 

240 I 


246 I 


256 1 





Tailpiecs : " To hear our old musician, blind and gray 

" There came and looked him in the face 
An Angel beautiful and bright ; 
And that heknev it was a Fiend, 
This miserable Knight ! " . 


■ 297 

Heading : A Stranger Minstrel 

Heading : The Picture, or the Lover's Resolution 

Heading : The Pains of Sleep 

Tailpiece : " O worse than all ! O pang all pangs above 
Is kindness counterfeiting absent Love 1 " 

Heading : A Child's Evening Prayer 

Heading : Time, Real and Imaginary 

" The vassal's speech, his taunting vein, 
It thrill'd like venom thro' her brain " . 

'' With sudden bound, beyond the boy " . 

The Garden of Boccaccio 
Heading : 





To face 390 
• 394 

See ! Boccace sits, unfolding on his knees 
The new-found roll of old Maeonides" . 

"Or rhyme of city pomp, of monk and priest. 
Judge, mayor, and many a guild in long array " 

" Boccaccio's Garden and its faery " 

" And more than all, the embrace and intertwine 
Of all with all in gay and twinkling dance ! " 

" Mid gods of Greece " 

" And warriors of romance " .... 

Tailpiece .....-.• 
Heading : Love's Apparition and Evanishment 

Tailpiece : Epitaph 

Vignette .....•••• 
Half-Title : Epigrams and Jeux d'Esprit 

Vignette ....•••• 
Tailpiece ; The End 

To /ace 








O'er the rais'd earth the gales of Evening sigh ; 

And, see, a Daisy peeps upon its slope ! 
I wipe the dimming waters from mine eye ; 

Even on the cold Grave lights the Cherub Hope ! 






Mild SplciKlour ol tlic various-vested Night ! 
Mother of wildly- working visions ! hail ! 
1 watch thy gliding, while with watery light 
Th\- weak e\e glimmers through a i]cccy veil ; 
And when thou lovest thy pale orb to shroud' 
Behind the gather'd blackness lost on high ; 
And when thou dartest from the wind-rent cloud 
Thy i>kicid lightning o'er the awaken'd skv. 




Ah such is Hope ! as changeful and as fair ! 
Now dimly peering on the wistful sight ; 
Now hid behind the dragon- wing' d Despair : 
But soon emerging in her radiant might 
She o'er the sorrow-clouded breast of Care 
Sails, like a Meteor kindling in its flight. 




Seraphs ! around th' Eternal's seat who throng 

With tuneful ecstasies of praise : 
O ! teach our feeble tongues like yours the song 

Of fervent gratitude to raise — 
Like you, inspir'd with holy flame 
To dwell on that Almighty name 
Who bade the child of woe no longer sigh. 
And Joy in tears o'erspread the W^idow's eye. 

Th' all-gracious Parent hears the wretch's prayer ; 
The meek tear strongly pleads on high ; 

Wan Resignation struggling with despair "^ 
I The Lord beholds with pitying eye ; 

Sees cheerless Want unpitied pine, 

Disease on earth its head recline, 
\nd bids Compassion seek the realms of woe 
To heal the wounded, and to raise the low. 

She comes ! she comes ! the meek-ey'd Power I see 

With liberal hand that loves to bless ; 
The clouds of Sorrow at her presence flee ; 

Rejoice ! rejoice ! ye children of distress ! 
The beams that play around her head 
Thro' Want's dark vale their radiance spread • 
'he young uncultur'd mind imbibes the ray, 
k.nd Vice reluctant quits th' expected prey. 


Cease, tliuu luni mother ! cease thy wailings drear ; 

Ye babes ! the unconscious sob forego ; 
Or let full gratitude now prompt the tear 

Which erst did Sorrow force to flow. 
Unkindly cold and tempest shrill 
In Life's mom oft the traveller chill, 
But soon his jxith the sun of Love shall warm ; 
And each glad scene look brighter for the storm ! 



Medio lie fonte Icporum 
Surgit aniari aliquid. 

JiLiA was bk'st with Beauty, Wit, and Grace : 

SmiUl j)octs lov'd to sing her blooming face. 

Before her altars, lo ! a numerous train 

Prefcrr'd their \ows ; yet all prcfcrr'd in vain, 

Till charming Florio, born to conquer, came 

And touch' d the fair one with an equal flame. 

The flame she felt, and ill could she conceal 

What every look and action would reveal. 

With lH)ldness then, which seldom fails to move, 

He pleads the cause of Marriage and of Love : 

The course of Hymeneal joys he rounds, 

The fair one's eyes danc'd jileasure at the sounds. 

Nought now remain'd but " Noes " — how little meant ! 

And the sweet coyness that endears consent. 

The youth ujion his knees enraptur'd fell : 

The strangi' misfortunes, oh ! what words can tell ? 

Tell ! ye neglected Sylphs ! who lap-dogs guard, 

Why stiatch'd ye not away your precious ward ? 

Why suher'd ye the lover's weight to fall 

On the ill-fated neck of much-loved Ball ? 

The favourite on liis mistress casts his eyes, 

(lives a short melancholy howl, and— dies. 

Sacred his ashes lie, ami long his rest ! 

Anger and Grief divide j)Oor Julia's breast. 


Her eyes she fix'd on guilty Florio first : 
On him the storm of angry grief must burst. 
That storm he fled ; — he wooes a kinder fair, 
Whose fond affections no dear puppies share. 
'Twere vain to tell, how Julia pin'd away : 
Unhappy Fair ! that in one luckless day — 
From future Almanacks the day be crost ! — 
At once her Lover and her Lap-dog lost. 



Ye souls unus'd to lofty verse 

Who sweep the earth with lowly wing, 

Like sand before the blast disperse — 
A Nose ! a mighty Nose I sing ! 
As erst Prometheus stole from heaven the fire 

To animate the wonder of his hand ; 
Thus with unhallow'd hands, O Muse, aspire, 

And from my subject snatch a burning brand ! 
So like the Nose I sing — my verse shall glow — 
Like Phlegethon my verse in waves of fire shall flow ! 

Light of this once all darksome spot 

Where now their glad course mortals run, 
First-born of Sirius begot 
Upon the focus of the sun — 

I'll call thee ! for such thy earthly name — 

What name so high, but what too low must be ? 
Comets, when most they drink the solar flame 

Are but faint types and images of thee ! 
Burn madly, Fire ! o'er earth in ravage run, 
I Then blush for shame more red by fiercer outdone ! 

I saw when from the turtle feast 

The thick dark smoke in volumes rose ! 

I saw the darkness of the mist 
Encircle thee, O Nose ! 


Shorn of thy rays thou shott'st a fearful gleam 
(The turtle quiver'd with prophetic fright) 

Gloomy and sullen thro' the night of steam : — 
So Satan's Nose when Dunstan urg'd to flight, 

(ilowing from gripe of red-hot pincers dread 

Athwart the smokes of Hell disastrous twilight shed ! 

The Furies to madness my brain devote — 

In robes of ice my body wrap ! 
On billowy flames of fire I float, 

Hear ye, my entrails how they snap ? 
Some power unseen forbids my lungs to breathe ! 
What fire-clad meteors round me whizzing fly ! 
I vitrify thy torrid zone beneath. 

Proboscis fierce ! I am calcin'd ! I die ! 
Tluis, like great Plin}-, in Vesuvius' fire, 
I perish in the blaze while I the blaze admire. 



Tiio' no bold flights to thee belong ; 

And tho' thy lays with conscious fear, 

Shrink from Judgement's eye severe. 

Vet nmch 1 tliank thee, Spirit of my song ! 

For, lovely Muse ! thy sweet employ 

Exalts my soul, refines my breast, 

("lives each jnire pleasure keener zest. 

And softens Sorrow into j)ensive Joy. 

From thee I learn'd the wish to bless, 

Fioni thee to comnuuu' with my heart ; 

I'rom thee, dear Muse I the gayer jiart — 

To laugh with jiity at the crowds that press 

Where Fashion flaunts her robes by Folly spun, 

Whose hui's g:\v-\:ir\ing wanton in the sun. 




Heard' ST thou yon universal cry, 

And dost thou Hnger still on Gallia's shore ? 
Go, Tyranny ! beneath some barbarous sky 
Thy terrors lost, and ruin'd power deplore ! 

What tho' through many a groaning age. 

Was felt thy keen suspicious rage, 

Yet Freedom rous'd by fierce Disdain 

Has wildly broke thy triple chain, 
And like the storm which Earth's deep entrails hide, 
At length has burst its way and spread the ruins wide. 


In sighs their sickly breath was spent ; each gleam 
Of Hope had ceas'd the long long day to cheer ; 

Or if delusive, in some flitting dream, 

It gave them to their friends and children dear — 
Awak'd by lordly Insult's sound 
To all the doubled horrors round. 
Oft shrunk they from Oppression's band 
While Anguish rais'd the desperate hand 

For silent death ; or, lost the mind's control. 

Thro' every burning vein would tides of Frenzy roll. 

But cease, ye pitying bosoms, cease to bleed ! 

Such scenes no more demand the tear humane ; 
I see, I see ! glad Liberty succeed 

With every patriot virtue in her train ! 
And mark yon peasant's raptur'd eyes ; 
Secure he views his harvests rise ; 
No fetter vile the mind shall know, 
And Eloquence shall fearless glow. 
Yes ! LibertyJ;he soul of Life shall reign. 
Shall throhTm every pulse, shall flow thro' every vein ! 




Shall France alone a Desjiot spurn ? 

Shall she alone, O Freedom, boast thy care ? 
Lo, round thy standard Belgia's heroes burn, 
Tho' Power's blood-stain'd streamers fire the air, 
And wider yet thy influence spread, 
Nor e'er recline thy weary head. 
Till every land from pole to pole 
Shall boast one independent soul ! 
And still, as erst, let favour'd Britain be 
First ever of the first and freest of the free ! 



MUSE who sangest late another's pain, 

To griefs domestic turn thy coal-black steed ! 
With slowest steps thy funeral steed must go, 
Nodding his head in all the jiomp of woe : 
Wide scatter round each dark and deadly weed, 
And let the melancholy dirge complain, 
(Whilst Bats shall shriek and Dogs shall howling run) 
The tea-kettle is spoilt and Coleridge is undone ! 

Youi cheerful songs, ye unseen crickets, cease ! 
Let songs of Grief your alter' d minds engage ! 
For he who sang responsive to your lay, 
What time the joyous bubbles 'gan to play, 
The soofy sivain has felt the fire's fierce rage ; — 
Vrs, lie is gone, and all my woes increase ; 

1 heard the Water issuing from the Wound — 

No more the Tea shall pour its fragrant steam around ! 

O Goddess best beloved ! Delightful Tea ! 

With whom compar'd what yields the madd'ning 

Wine ? 
Swi-et Power! that know'st to spread the calm dilight, 
And the i)ure joy ])rolong to midmost night ! 


Ah ! must I all thy varied sweets resign ? 
Enfolded close in grief thy form I see, 
No more wilt thou expand thy willing arms, 
Receive the fervent Jove, and yield him all thy charms ! 

How sink the mighty low by Fate opprest ! — 
Perhaps, O Kettle ! thou by scornful toe 
Rude urg'd t' ignoble place with plaintive din, 
May'st rust obscure midst heaps of vulgar tin ; — 
As if no joy had ever seiz'd my breast 
When from thy spout the stream did arching fly, — 
As if, infus'd thou ne'er hadst known t' inspire 
All the warm raptures of poetic fire ! 

But hark ! or do I fancy the glad voice — 
" What tho' the swain did wondrous charms dis- 
close — 
(Not such did Memnon's sister sable-drest) 
Take these bright arms with royal face imprest : 
A better Kettle shall thy soul rejoice, 
And with Oblivion's wings o'erspread thy woes " ! 
Thus fairyJBope-ean soothe distress and toil ; 
On empty Trivets she bids fancied Kettles boil ! 



Deep in the gulph of Vice and Woe 
Leaps man at once with headlong throw ? 
Him inborn Truth and Virtue guide, 
Whose guards are Shame and conscious Pride. 

In some gay hour Vice steals into the breast ; 

Perchance she wears some softer \'irtue's vest. 

By unperceiv'd degrees she tempts to stray, 
Till far from Virtue's path she leads the feet away. 

Then swift the soul to disenthrall 

Will Memory the })ast recall, 

And Fear before the Victim's eyes 

I^id future ills and dangers rise. 
But hark ! the voice, the lyre, their charms 

combine — 
Gay sjiarkles in the cup the generous Wine — 
Th' inebriate dance the fair frail Nymjih inspires, 
And Virtue vanquish'd — scorn'd, — with hasty ilight 

But soon to tempt the pleasures cease ; 

Yet Shame forbids return to Peace, 

And stern Necessity will force 

Still to urge on the desperate course. 
The drear black j)aths of \'ice the wretch must tiy. 
Where Conscience flashes horror on each eye. 
Where Hate — where Murder scowl — where starts 

Affright ! 
Ail ! close the scene — ah ! close — for dreadful is the 





Hence, soul-dissolving Harmony 

That lead'st th' oblivious soul astray — 

Though thou sphere-descended be — ^^^ 

Hence away ! — 

Thou mightier Goddess, thou demand'st my lay, 

Born when Earth was seiz'd with cholic ; 
Or as more sapient sages say. 
What time the Legion diabolic 
Compell'd their beings to enshrine 
In bodies vile of herded swine, 
Precipitate adown the steep 
With hideous rout were plunging in the deep, 
And hog and devil mingling grunt and yell 

Seized on the ear with horrible obtrusion : — 
Then, if aright old legendaries tell, 

Wert thou begot by Discord on Confusion ! 

What though no name's sonorous power 
Was given thee at thy natal hour ! — 
Yet oft I feel thy sacred might, 
While concords wing their distant flight. 
Such power inspires thy holy son 
Sable clerk of Tiverton. 
And oft where Otter sports his stream, 
I hear thy banded offspring scream. 
Thou Goddess ! thou inspir'st each throat ; 
'Tis thou who pour'st the scritch-owl note ! 
Transported hear'st thy children all 
Scrape and blow and squeak and squall. 
And while old Otter's steeple rings, 
Clappest hoarse thy raven wings ! 




Along this glade was Anna wont to rove 
Wliile Henry told his love in many a sigh. 
But (lark on Henry roU'd her brother's eye, 

They fouglit, they fell — her brother and her love ! 

To her cold grave did woe-worn Anna haste. 
Yet here her j)ensivc ghost delights to stray : 
Oft pouring on the winds a broken lay — 

And hark, I hear her — 'twas the passing blast. 

I love to sit upon her tomb's dank grass, 

There Memory backward rolls Time's shadowy tide ; 

The forms of other days before me glide : 
With eager thought I seize them as they pass ; 
For fair, tho' faint, the forms of Memory gleam. 
Like Heaven's liris^dit bow reflected on tlie stream. 



O MEEK attendant of Sol's setting blaze, 

I hail, sweet Star, thy chaste effulgent glow ; 

On thee full oft with fixed eye I gaze 
Till I, methinks, ail spirit seem to grow. 

O first and fairest of the starry choir, 

loveliest 'mid the daughters of the night, 

Must not the maid I love like thee inspire 
Piitr joy and cnhn Delight ? 

Must she not be, as is th\- placid sphere 

Screnel\- l)rilliant ? \\'hilst to gaze a while 
He all my wish 'mid l-'aney's high career 

E'en till she qviit this scene of earthly toil ; 
Then Hope jierchauce might fondly sigh to join 
lb I s|iiiil in tli\ kiiulird orl), () Star benign ! 





The tear which mourn'd a Brother's fate scarce dry — 

Pain after pain, and woe succeeding woe — 

Is my heart destin'd for another blow ? 

O my sweet Sister ! and must thou too die ? 

Ah ! how has Disappointment pour'd the tear 

O'er infant Hope destroy' d by early frost ! 

How are ye gone, whom most my soul held dear ! 

Scarce had I lov'd you ere I mourn'd you lost ; 

Say, is this hollow eye, this heartless pain. 

Fated to rove thro' Life's wide cheerless plain — 

Nor Father, Brother, Sister meet its ken — 

My woes, my joys unshared ! Ah ! long ere then 

On me thy icy dart, stern Death, be prov'd ; — 

Better to die, than live and not be lov'd ! 



'Tis hard on Bagshot Heath to try 
Unclos'd to keep the weary eye ; 
But ah ! Oblivion's nod to get 
In rattling coach is harder yet. 

Slumbrous God of half-shut eye ! 
Who lovest with limbs supine to lie ; 

Soother sweet of toil and care 
Listen, listen to my prayer ; 

And to thy votary dispense 
Thy soporific influence ! 

What tho' around thy drowsy head 
The seven-fold cap of night be spread. 

Yet lift that drowsy head awhile 
And yawn propitiously a smile ; 

In drizzly rains poppean dews 
O'er the tir'd inmates of the Coach diffuse ; 



And when thou'st charm'd our eyes to rest 
Pillowing the chin upon the breast, 

Bid many a dream from thy dominions 
Wave its various-painted pinions, 

Till ere the splendid visions close 
We snore quartettes in ecstasy of nose. 
While thus we urge our airy course, 
O may no jolt's electric force 
Our fancies from their steeds unhorse, 

And call us from thy fairy reign 

To dreary Bagshot Heath again ! 



The indignant Bard comj)os'd this furious ode, 
As tired he dragg'd his way thro' Plimtrce road ! 
Crusted with filth and stuck in mire 
Dull sounds the Bard's bemudded lyre ; 
Nathless Revenge and Ire the Poet goad 
To pour his imprecations on the road. 

Curst road ! whose execrable way 

Was darkly shadow' d out in Milton's lay. 

When the sad fiends thro' Hell's sulphureous roads 

Took the first survey of their new abodes ; 

Or when the fall'n Archangel fierce 

Dared through the realms of Night to jiierce, 

What time the Bloodhound lured by Human scent 

Thro' all Confusion's quagmires floundering went. 

Nor cheering j^ipe, nor Bird's shrill note 
Around thy dreary j)aths shall float ; 
Their boding songs shall scritch-owls pour 
To fright the guilty shej^hcrds sore, 
Led by the wandering fires astray 
Thro' the dank horrors of thy way ! 
While they their mud-lost sandals hunt 
May all the curses, which they grunt 
In raging moan like goaded hog, 
Alight U])on thee, damned Bog ! 



As late I journey'd o'er the extensive plain 
Where native Otter sports his scanty stream, 

Musing in torpid woe a sister's pain, 

The glorious prospect woke me from the dream. 

At every step it widen' d to my sight, — 
■ Wood, Meadow, verdant Hill, and dreary Steep, 
Following in quick succession of delight, 

Till all — at once — did my eye ravish' d sweep ! 

May this (I cried) my course through Life portray ! 
New scenes of wisdom may each step display, 
And Knowledge open as my days advance ! 
Till what time Death shall pour the undarken'd ray, 
"^My eye shall dart thro' infinite expanse, 
And Thought suspended lie in Rapture's blissful trance. 
I 1790. 



O WHAT a wonder seems the fear of Death, 

Seeing how gladly we all sink to sleep, 

Babes, Children, Youths and men, 

Night following night for threescore years and ten ! 

But doubly strange, where Life is but a breath 

To sigh and pant with, up Want's rugged steep. 


Away, Grim Phantom ! Scorinon King, awa}' ! 
Reserve thy terrors and thy stings display 
For coward Wealth and Guilt in robes of State ! 
^Lo ! by the grave I stand of one. lor whom 
A i^rodigal Nature and a niggard Doom 
{That all bestowing, lliis withholding all,) 
Made each chance kuvW from tlistant spire or dome 
Sound like a seeking Mother's anxious call, 
" Return, poor Child ! Home, weary Truant, home ! " 

Thee Chatter ton ! these unblest stones protect 
Prom want and the bleak freezings of neglect. 




Too long before the vexing Storm-blast driven 
Here hast thou found repose ! beneath this sod ! 
Thou ! O vain word ! thou dwell'st not with the ^ 

clod ! 20 

Amid the shining Host of the Forgiven 
Thou at the throne of Mercy and thy God 
The triumph of redeeming Love dost hymn 
(Believe it, my Soul !) to harps of Seraphim. 

Yet oft, perforce ('tis suffering Nature's call) 
I weep that heaven-born Genius so should fall ; 
And oft, in Fancy's saddest hour, my soul 
Averted shudders at the poison' d bowl. ; 

Now groans my sickening heart, as still I view 

Thy corse of livid hue ; . ^^ 

Now Indignation checks the feeble sigh,- 
Or flashes through the tear that glistens in mine eye ! 

Is this the land of song-ennobled line ? jj 

Is this the land, where Genius ne'er in vain I 

Pour'd forth his lofty strain ? " 

Ah me ! yet Spenser, gentlest bard divine, 
Beneath chill Disappointment's shade, 
His weary limbs in lonely anguish lay'd ; 

And o'er her darling dead 

Pity hopeless hung her head, ^^ 

While " 'mid the pelting of that merciless storm," 
Sunk to the cold earth Otway's famish'd form ! 

Sublime of thought and confident of fame, ^ 

From vales where Avon * winds the Minstrel came. 

Light-hearted youth ! aye, as he hastes along. 
He meditates the future song. 
How dauntless lEWdi fray'd the Dacyan foe ; 

And while the numbers flowing strong 

In eddies whirl, in surges throng. 
Exulting in the spirit's genial throe 
In tides of power his life-blood seems to flow, 

* Avon, a river near Bristol; the birthplace of Chatterton. 




And now his cheeks with deeper ardours flame, 
His eyes have glorious meanings that declare 
More than the light of outward day shines there — 
A holier triumph and a sterner aim ! 
Wings grow within him, and he soars above 
On Bard's or Minstrel's lay of war or love. 
Friend to the friendless, to the sufferer health, 
He hears the widow's ]>raycr, the good man's praise ; 
To scenes of bliss transmutes his fancied wealth, 
I And young and old shall now see happy days. 
//On many a waste he bids trim gardens rise, 
Gives the blue sky to many a prisoner's eyes ; 
And now in wrath he grasj)s the patriot steel, 
And his own iron rod he makes Oppression feel. 

Sweet Flower of Hope ! free Nature's genial child ! 
That didst so fair disclose thy early bloom, 
Filling the wide air with a rich jierfume ! 
For thee in vain all heavenly aspects smiled ; 
From the hard world brief respite could they win — 
The frost nij^p'd sharp without, the Canker preyed 

within ! 
Ah ! where are fled the charms of vernal Grace, 
And Joy's wild gleams that lighten'd o'er thy 

face ? 
Youth of tumultuous soul, and haggard eye ! 
Thy wasted form, thy hurried steps I view, 
On th\' wan forehead starts the lethal dew, 
And oil ! the anguish of that shuddering sigh ! 

Such were the struggles of the gloomy hour, 

When Care, of wither'd brow. 
Prepared the poison's death -cold power ; 
Already to thy lips was rais'd the bowl. 
When near thee stood Affection meek, 
(Her bosom bare, and wildly pale lier cheek) 
Thy sullen gaze she bade thee roll 
On scenes that well might nu'lt tiiy soul ; 
Thy native cot she tla^h'd ujion thy view. 



Thy native cot, where still, at close of day, 
Peace smiling sate, and listen' d to thy lay ; 
Thy Sister's shrieks she bade thee hear, 
And mark thy Mother's thrilling tear ; 

See, see her breast's convulsive throe, ^" 

Her silent agony of woe ! 
Ah ! dash the poison' d chalice from thy hand ! 

And thou had'st dash'd it, at her soft command, 
But that Despair and Indignation rose, 
And told again the story of thy woes, 
Told the keen insult of the unfeeling heart, 
TJie di'cad dependence. on. the low-born mind ; 
Told eyery pang, with which thy soul must smart 
Neglect, and grinning Scorn, and Want combined ! 
Recoiling quick, thou bad'st the friend of pain i"** 

Roll the black tide of Death through every freezing 
vein ! 

^^■^- Spirit blest ! 

Whether the Eternal's throne around 

Amidst the blaze of Seraphim, 

Thou pourest forth the grateful hymn ; 

Or soaring thro' the blest domain 

Enrapturest Angels with thy strain, — 
■ Grant me like thee the lyre to sound, ^"^ 

Like thee with fire divine to glow ; — 

But ah ! when rage the waves of woe, ^^'^ 

Grant me with firmer breast to meet their hate, 

And soar beyond the storm with upright eye elate ! 

Ye woods ! that wave o'er Avon's rocky steep, 
To Fa ixcy's ear sw eet is your murmuring deep ! 
For here she loves the cypress wreath to weave 
Watching, with wistful eye, the saddening tints of eve. 
Here far from men, amid this pathless grove, 
In solemn thought the Minstrel wont to rove. 
Like star-beams on the slow sequester' d tide 
Lone-glittering, thro' the high tree branching wide. ^~^ 



And here, in Inspiration's eager hour, 
When most the big soul feels the mastering power, 
These wilds, these caverns roaming o'er, 
Round which the screaming sea-gulls soar, 
With wild unequal steps he passed along, 
OlFpouring on the winds a broken song. 
Anon, upon some rough rock's fearful brow 
Would pause abrupt — and gaze upon the waves below. 

Poor Chatterton ! he sorrows for thy fate 

Who would have prais'd and lov'd thee, ere too late. ^^^ 

Poor Chatterton ! farewell ! of darkest hues 

This chaplet cast I on thy unshapcd tomb. 

But dare no longer on the sad theme muse. 

Lest kindred woes persuade a kindred doom : 

For oh ! big gall-drops, shook from Folly's wing. 

Have blacken'd the fair promise of my. spring ; 

And the stern Fate transpierc'd with viewless dart 

The last pale Hope that shiver' d at my heart ! 

Hence gloomy thoughts ! no more my soul shall dwell 

On joys that were ! No more endure to weigh ^^^ 

The shame and anguish of the evil da}', 

Wisely forgetful ! O'er the ocean swell 

Sublime of Hoi)e I seek the cottag'd dell 

Where Virtue calm'\vith careless step may_stray ; 

And, dancing to the moon-light roundelay 

The wizard Passions weave a holy spell ! 

O Chatterton ! that thou wcrt yet alive ! 

Sure thou would'st sjiread the canvass to the gale, 

And love with us the tinkling team to drive 

O'er peaceful Freedom's undivided dale; 

And we, at sober eve, would round llu'e tluong, 

Would hang, ema]itur'd, on thy stately song. 

And greet with smiles the young-eyed Poesy 

All deftly niask'd, as hoar Antiquity. 



PAIN 21 

Alas, vain Phantasies ! the fleeting brood 

Of Woe self-solac'd in her dreamy mood ! 

Yel-will IJo-ve to follow the sweet dream, 

Where Susquehanna!^ pours his untam'd stream ; 

And on some hill, whose forest-frowning side 

Waves o'er the murmur of his calmer tide, ^^^ 

\Yill raise a solemn Cenotaph to thee. 

Sweet Harper of time-shrouded Minstrelsy ! 

And there, sooth' d sadly by the dirgeful wind, 

Muse on the sore ills I had left behind ! 



Once could the Morn's first beams, the healthful breeze 
All Nature charm, and gay was every hour : — 
But ah ! not Music's self, nor fragrant bower 

Can glad the trembling sense of wan disease. 

Now that the frequent pangs my frame assail, 

Now that my sleepless eyes are sunk and dim, 
And seas of pain seem waving through each limb — 

Ah what can all Life's gilded scenes avail ? 

I view the crowd, whom Youth and Health inspire, 
Hear the loud laugh and catch the sportive lay, 
Then sigh and think — I too could laugh and play 
And gaily sport it on the Muse's lyre. 

Ere Tyrant Pain had chas'd away delight. 
Ere the wild pulse throbb'd anguish thro' the night. 



Maid of my Love, sweet Genevieve ! 
In Beauty's light you glide along : 
Your eye is like the Star of Eve, 
And sweet your Voice, as Seraph's song. 
Yet not your heavenly Beauty gives 
This heart with jiassion soft to glow : 
Within your soul a Voice there lives ! 
It bids you hear the tale of Woe. 
\\'hen sinking low the Sufferer wan 
Beholds no hand outstretched to save, 
Fair, as the bosom of the Swan 
That rises graceful o'er the wave, 
I've seen your breast with pity heave. 
And therefore love I you, sweet Genevieve ! 



O, cxiras hominum ! O, quantum est in rebus inane ! 

The fervid Sun had more than halv'd the day, 

When gloomy on his couch Philedon lay ; 

His feeble frame consumptive as his purse, 

His aching head did Wine and Women curse ; 

His fortune ruin'd and his wealth decay'd, 

Clamorous his duns, his gaming debts unpaid, 

The youth indignant seiz'd his tailor's bill, 

And on its back thus wrote with moral quill : 

" Various as colours in the rainbow shown, 

Or similar in emptiness alone, ^^ 

How false, how vain are Man's pursuits below ! 

Wealth, Honour, Pleasure — what can ye bestow ? 

Yet see, how high and low, and young and old 

Pursue the all delusive power of Gold. 

Fond man ! should all Peru thy empire own, 

For thee tho' all Golconda's jewels shone. 

What greater bliss could all this wealth supply ? 

What, but to eat and drink and sleep and die ? 

Go, tempt the stormy sea, the burning soil — 

Go, waste the night in thought, the day in toil, 20 

Dark frowns the rock, and fierce the tempests 

rave — 
Thy ingots go the unconscious deep to pave ! 
Or thunder at thy door the midnight train, 
Or Death shall knock that never knocks in vain. 
Next Honour's sons come bustling on amain ; 
I laugh with pity at the idle train. 
Infirm of soul ! who think' st to lift thy name 
Upon the waxen wings of human fame, — 
Who for a sound, articulated breath — 
Gazest undaunted in the face of Death ! 2" 

What art thou but a Meteor's glaring light — 
Blazing a moment and then sunk in night ? 
Caprice which rais'd thee high shall hurl thee low, 
Or Envy blast the laurels on thy brow. 
To such poor joys could ancient Honour lead 
When empty Fame was toiling Merit's meed ; 



To Modern Honour other lays l)clong ; 

Profuse of joy and Lord of right and wrong, 

Honour can game, drink, riot in the stew. 

Cut a friend's throat ; — what cannot Honour do ? ^" 

Ah me — the storm within can Honour still 

For Julio's death, whom Honour made me kill ? 

Or will this lordly Honour tell the way 

To pay those debts, which Honour makes me pay ? 

Or if with })istol and terrific threats 

I make some traveller ])ay my Honour's debts, 

A med'cine for this wound can Honour give ? 

Ah, no ! my Honour dies to make my Honour live. 

But see ! young Pleasure, and her train advance. 

And Joy and Laughter wake the inebriate dance ; ^^ 

Around my neck she throws her fair white arms, 

I meet her loves, and madden at her charms. 

For the gay gra])e can joys celestial move, 

And what so sweet below as Woman's love ? 

With such high transport every moment flies, 

I curse Ex])erience that he makes me wise 

For at his frown the dear deliriums Hew, 

And the changed scene now wears a gloomy hue. 

A hideous hag th' Enchantress Pleasure seems, 

And all her joys aji))ear but feverous dreams. 

The vain resolve still broken and still made, 

Disease and Loathing and Remorse invade ; 

The charm is vanish'd and the bubble's l)roke, — 

A slave to pleasure is a slave to smoke ! " 

Such lays repentant did the Muse supply ; 
When as the Sun was hastening down the sky. 
In glittering slate twice fifty guineas come, — 
His Mother's iilate antique had rais'd the sum. 
Forth leap'd Philedon of new life jiossessed : — 
'Twas Brookes's all till two,— 'twas Hackett's all the 

rest ! 





All are not born to soar — and ah ! how few 

In tracks where Wisdom leads their paths pursue ! 

Contagious when to wit or wealth allied, 

Folly and Vice diffuse their venom wide. 

On Folly every fool his talent tries ; 

It asks some toil to imitate the wise ; 

Tho' few like Fox can speak — like Pitt can think— 

Yet all like Fox can game — like Pitt can drink. 



On wide or narrow scale shall Man 

Most happily describe Life's plan ? 

Say shall he bloom and wither there, j r, 

Where first his infant buds appear ; , ^ 6 .- 

Or upwards dart with soaring force, 

And tempt some more ambitious course ? 

Obedient now to Hope's command, >- / 1 j k/ '\ ^ ^ 
I bid each humble wish expand, r '^ 

And fair and bright Life's prospects seem, 
While Hope displays her cheering beam, ^° 

And Fancy's vivid colourings stream, J / 

While Emulation stands me nigh 
The Goddess of the eager eye. 

With foot advanc'd and anxious heart ^, 

Now for the fancied goal I start : — ~^ ' 

Ah ! why will Reason intervene 
Me alid my promis'd joys between ! 
She stops my course, she chains my speed. 
While thus her forceful words proceed : — 
" Ah ! listen, youth, ere yet too late, ^^ 

What evils on thy course may wait ! 
To bow the head, to bend the knee, 
A minion of Servility ; 





At low Pride's frequent frowns to sigh, 
And watch the glance in Folly's eye ; 
To toil intense, yet toil in vain. 
And feel with what a hollow pain 
Pale Disappointment hangs her head 
O'er darling Expectation dead ! 
" The scene is changed and Fortune's gale 
Shall belly out each prosperous sail. 
Yet sudden wealth full well I know 
Did never Happiness bestow. 
That wealth to which we were not born 
Dooms us to sorrow or to scorn. 
Behold yon flock which long had trod 
O'er the short grass of Devon's sod. 
To Lincoln's rank rich meads transferr'd, 
And in their fate thy own be fcar'd ; 
Through every limb contagions tly, -"^ 

Deform'd and chok'd they burst and die. 
" When Luxur}- opens wide her arms, 
And smiling wooes thee to those charms. 
Whose fascination thousands own, 
Shall thy brows wear the stoic frown ? 
, J And when her goblet she extends 
A 7 ; Which madd'ning myriads press around. 
What power divine thy soul befriends 
That thou should'st dash it to the ground ? — 
No, thou shalt drink, and thou slialt know *" 

Her transient bliss, her lasting woe. 
Her maniac joys, that know no measure, 
And riot rude and jiainted jileasure ; — 
Till (sad reverse !) the Enchantress vile 
To frowns converts her magic smile ; 
Her train im]:)atient to destroy, 
Observe her frown with gloomy joy ; 
On thee with harpy fangs they seize 
The hideous offsjning of Disease, 
Swoln Droj)sy ignorant of Rest, 
And Fever garb'd in scarlet vest, 
Consumi)tion driving the quick hearse, 
And Gout that howls the frequent curse, 
With A]iop1ex of heavy head 
That surely aims his tlart of lead. 



" But say Life's joys unmix' d were given 
To thee some favourite of Heaven : 
Within, without, tho' all were health — 
Yet what e'en thus are Fame, Power, Wealth, 
But sounds that variously express, '" 

What's thine already — Happiness ! 
'Tis thine the converse deep to hold 
With all the famous sons of old ; 
And thine the happy waking dream 
While Hope pursues some favourite theme. 
As oft when Night o'er Heaven is spread, 
Round this maternal seat you tread. 
Where far from splendour, far from riot. 
In silence wrapped sleeps careless Quiet. 
'Tis thine with Fancy oft to talk, ^° 

And thine the peaceful evening walk ; 
And what to thee the sweetest are — 
The setting Sun, the Evening Star — 
The tints, which live along the sky. 
And Moon that meets thy raptur'd eye, 
Where oft the tear shall grateful start, 
Dear silent pleasures of the Heart ! 
Ah ! Being blest, for Heaven shall lend 
To share thy simple joys a friend ! 
Ah ! doubly blest, if Love supply ^^ 

His influence to complete thy joy. 
If chance some lovely maid thou find 
To read thy visage in thy mind. 
" One blessing more demands thy care : — 
Once more to Heaven address the prayer : 
For humble Independence pray 
The Guardian Genius of thy way, 
Whom (sages say) in days of yore 
Meek Competence to Wisdom bore ; 
So shall thy little vessel glide ^°° 

With a fair breeze adown the tide. 
And Hope, if e'er thou 'ginst to sorrow 
Remind^hee of some fair to-morrow, 
Till Death shall close thy tranquil eye 
While Faith proclaims ' thou shalt not die ! ' " 




If Pegasus will let thee only ride him, 
Spurning my c'umsy efforts to o'crstridc him, 
Some fresh expedient the Muse will try, 
And walk on stilts, although she cannot fly. 

To the Rev. George Coleridge 

Dear Brother, 

I have often been surprised that Mathematics, the 
quintessence of Truth, should have found admirers so 
few and so languid. Frequent consideration and minute 
scrutiny have at length unravelled the cause ; viz. that 
though Reason is feasted. Imagination is starved ; 
whilst Reason is luxuriating in its proper Paradise, 
Imagination is wearily travelling on a dreary desert. 
To assist Reason by the stimulus of Imagination is the 
design of the following production. In the execution of 
it much may be objectionable. The verse (particularly 
in the introduction of the ode) may be accused of un- 
warrantable liberties, but they are liberties equally 
homogeneal with the exactness of Mathematical dis- 
quisition, and the boldness of Pindaric daring. I 
have three strong champions to defend me against the 
attacks of Criticism : the Novelty, the Difficulty, and 
the lUility of the work. I may justly plume myself 
that I fust have drawn the nymph Mathesis from the 
visionary caves of abstracted idea, and caused her to 
unile with Harmony. The fust-born of this Union 
1 now present to you ; with interested motives indeed — 
as I expect to receive in return the more valuable off- 
spring of your Muse. 

Thine ever, 

S. T. C. 

March 31, 1791. 




This is now — this was erst, 
Proposition the first — and Problem the first. 


On a given finite line 
Which must no way incline ; 
To describe an equi — 
— lateral Tri — 

Now let A. B. 
Be the given line 
Which must no way incline ; 
The great Mathematician 
Makes this Requisition, ^^ 

That we describe an Equi — 
— lateral Tri — 
— angle on it : 
Aid us, Reason — aid us, Wit ! 


From the centre A. at the distance A. B. 

Describe the circle B. C. D. 
At the distance B. A. from B. the centre 
The round A. C. E. to describe boldly venture. 
(Third postulate see.) 
And from the point C. ^^ 

In which the circles make a pother 
Cutting and slashing one another, 

Bid the straight lines a journeying go, 
(C. A. C. B. those lines will show.) 

To the points, which by A. B. are reckon' d — 
And postulate the second 
For Authority ye know. 
A. B. C. 
Triumphant shall be 
An Equilateral Triangle, ^^ 

Not Peter Pindar carp, nor Zoilus can wrangle. 

* Poetice for Angle. 



Because the point A. is the centre 

Of the circular B. C. D. 
And because the point B. is the centre 

Of the circular A. C. E. 
A. C. to A. B. and B. C. to B. A. 
Harmoniously equal for ever must stay ; 
Then C. A. and B. C. 
Both extend the kind hand 

To the basis, A. B. •>" 

Unambitiously join'd in Equality's Band. 
But to the same powers, when two powers are equal, 
My mind forebodes the sequel ; 
My mind docs some celestial impulse teach, 

And equalises each to each. 
Thus C. A. with B. C. strikes the same sure alliance, 
That C. A. and B. C. had with A. B. before ; 
And in mutual alliance 
None attempting to soar 

Abov^e another, '''' 

The unanimous three 
C. A. and B. C. and A. B. 
All are equal, each to his brother, 

Preserving the balance of jiower so true : 
Ah ! the like would the i)r()ud Autocratix * do, 
At taxes impending not Britain would tremble. 
Nor Prussia struggle her fear to dissemble ; 
Nor the Mah'mct-sjirung wight 
The great Mussulman 

Would stain his Divan *° 

With Urine the soft-flowing daughter of Fright. 


But rein your stallion in, too daring Nine ! 
Should ]"!inpiri'S bloat the scienlilir lino ? 
Or with tlislK'wU'd liair all nuuUy do ye run 
For transport that your task is done ? 

* Empress of Russia. 


For done it is — the cause is tried ! 
And Proposition, gentle maid, 
Who soothly ask'd stern Demonstration's aid, 
Has proved her right, and A. B. C. 

Of Angles three "" 

Is shown to be of equal side ; 
And now our weary steed to rest in fine, 
'Tis raised upon A. B. the straight, the given line. 




Farewell parental scenes ! a sad farewell ! 
To you my grateful heart still fondly clings, 
Tho' fluttering round on Fancy's burnish' d wings 
Her tales of future Joy Hope loves to tell. 
Adieu, adieu ! ye much-lov'd cloisters pale ! 
Ah ! would those happy days return again. 
When 'neath your arches, free from every stain, 
I heard of guilt and wonder' d at the tale ! 
Dear haunts ! where oft my simple lays I sang, 
Listening meanwhile the echoings of my feet. 
Lingering I quit you, with as great a pang, 
As when, erewhile, my weeping childhood, torn 
By early sorrow from my native seat. 
Mingled its tears with hers — my widow' d Parent lorn. 




Where grac'd with many a classic spoil 
Cam rolls his reverend stream along, 
I haste to urge the learned toil 
That sternly chides my love-lorn song : — 
Ah me ! too mindful of the days 
lUumin'd by Passion's orient rays, 
When Peace, and Cheerfulness and Health 
Enrich'd me with the best of wealth. 

Ah fair Delights ! that o'er my soul 
On Memory's wing, like shadows fly ! 
Ah flowers ! which Joy from Eden stole 
While Innocence stood smiling by ! — 
But cease, fond Heart ! this bootless moan : 
Those Hours on rapid Pinions flown 
Shall yet return, by Absence crown' d, 
And scatter livelier roses round. 

The Sun who ne'er remits his fires 
On heedless eyes may pour the day : 
The Moon, that oft from Heaven retires, 
Endears her renovated ray. 
What tliough she leave the sky unblest 
To mourn awhile in murky vest ? 
When slic relumes her lovely Light. 
We bless the Wanderer of the Night. 

■ 79I- 



I TOO a sister had ! too cruel Death ! 

How sad Remembrance bids my bosom heave ! 

Tranquil her soul, as sleeping Infant's breath ; 

Meek were her manners as a vernal Eve. 

Knowledge, that frequent lifts the bloated mind. 

Gave her the treasure of a lowly breast, 

And Wit to venom' d Malice oft assign' d. 

Dwelt in her bosom in a Turtle's nest. 

Cease, busy Memory ! cease to urge the dart ; 

Nor on my soul her love to me impress ! 

For oh I mourn in anguish — and my heart 

Feels the keen pang, th' unutterable distress. 
Yet wherefore grieve I that her sorrows cease. 
For Life was misery, and the Grave is Peace ! 




Though much averse, dear Jack, to flicker, 

To find a likeness for friend Vicar, 

I've made through Earth, and Air, and Sea, 

A Voyage of Discovery ! 

And let me add (to ward off strife) 

For Vicar, and for Vicar's Wife — 

She large and round beyond belief, 

A superfluity of beef ! 

Her mind and body of a jnece. 

And both composed of kitchen grease. 

In short. Dame Truth might safely dub her 

Vulgarity enshrined in blubber ! 

He, meagre bit of littleness, 

All snuff, and musk, and politesse ; 

So thin, that strip him of his clothing, 

He'd totter on the edge of nothing ! 

In case of foe, he well might hide 

Snug in the colloj)s of her side. 

Ah then what simile will suit ? 

Spindle-leg in great jack-boot ? 

Pismire crawling in a rut ? 

Or a spigot in a butt ? 

Thus I hunim'd and ha'd awhile. 

When Madam Memory with a smiK' 

Thus twitch'd my ear — Why sure, I ween, 

In London streets thou oft hast seen 

The very image of this pair : 

A little Ape with huge She-Bear 

Link'd bv hapless chain together : 

An unlick'd mass the one — the oilier 

An antic huge with nimble crupper — 

But stop, my Muse ! for here comes supper. 




Virtues and Woes alike too great for man 

In the soft tale oft claim the useless sigh : 
For vain the attempt to realise the plan, 

On Folly's wings must Imitation liy. 
With other aim has Fielding here display' d 

Each social duty and each social care ; 
With just yet vivid colouring portray'd 

What every wife should be, what many are. 

And, sure, the Parent of a race so sweet 

With double pleasure on the page shall dwell, 

Each scene with sympathizing breast shall meet- 
While Reason, still, with smiles delights to tell 

Maternal hope, that her lov'd Progeny 

In all but sorrows shall Amelias be ! 



The Stream with languid murmur creeps 

In Lumin's flowery vale : 
Beneath the dew the Lily weeps 

Slow-waving to the gale. 

" Cease, restless Gale ! " it seems to say, 
" Nor wake me with thy sighing ! 

The honours of my vernal day 
On rapid wing are flying. 

" To-morrow shall the Traveller come 
Who late beheld me blooming : 



His searching eye shall \ainly roam 
The dreary vale of Luinin." 

With eager gaze and wetted cheek 

My wonted haunts along, 
Thus, faithful Maiden ! thou shall seek 

The Youth of simplest song. 

But / along the breeze shall roll 

The voice of feeble power ; 
And dwell, the Moon-beam of thy soul, 

In Slumlier's nightly hour. 




How long Will ye round me be swelling, 

O ye blue-tumbling waves of the sea ? 
Not always in caves was my dwelling, 

Nor beneath the cold blast ol the tree. 
Through the high-souniling halls of Cathloma 

In the stei->s of my beaut\- I stray'd ; 
The warriors beheld Ninath<')ina, 

And they blessed the white-bosoni'd Maid I 

A Ghost ! by my cavern it darted ! 

In moon-beams the Spirit was dressed — 
For lovely ap})ear the Departed 

When they visit the dreams of \\\\ rest ! 
But disturb'd by the Temjiest's commotion 

F^leet the shadow\' forms of Delight — 
Ah cease, thou shrill blast of the ()cean I 

To howl through my cavern by night. 



As late each flower that sweetest blows 
I pluck' d — the Garden's pride ! 
Within the petals of a Rose 
A sleeping Love I spied. 

Around his brows a beamy wreath 
Of many a lucent hue ; 
All purple glow'd his cheek, beneath, 
Inebriate with dew. 

I softly seiz'd the unguarded Power, 
Nor scared his balmy rest : 
And placed him, caged within the flower, 
On spotless Sara's breast. 

But when unweeting of the guile 
Awoke the Prisoner sweet, 
He struggled to escape awhile, 
And stamp'd his faery feet. 

Ah ! soon the soul-entrancing sight 
Subdued the impatient boy ! 
He gazed ! he thrill' d with deep delight ! 
Then clapp'd his wings for joy. 

" And O ! " he cried—" Of magic kind 
What charms this Th one endear ! 
Some other Love let Venus find — 
L'll fix my empire here." 





Cupid, if storying Legends tell aright, 
Once framed a rich Ehxir of Dehght. 
A Chahce o'er love-kindled flames he fix'd, 
And in it Nectar and Ambrosia mix'd : 
With these the magic dews which Evening brings, 
Brush' d from the Idalian star by faery wings : 
Each tender pledge of sacred Faith he join'd. 
Each gentler Pleasure of th' iinsi')otted mind — 
y Day-dreams, whose tints with sportive brightness glow, 
And Ho})e, the blameless })arasite of Woe. 
The eyeless Chemist heard the process rise. 
The steamy Chalice bubl^lcd up in sighs ; 
Sweet sounds transpir'd, as when the enamour' d 

Pours the soft nuirmuring of responsive Love. 
The finish'd work might Envy vainly blame. 
And Kisses was the precious Compound's name. 
With half the God his Cyprian Mother blest, 
And breath'd on Sara's lovelier lips the rest. 




Thou gentle Look, that didst my soul beguile. 
Why hast thou left me ? Still in some fond dream 
Revisit my sad heart, ausj^icious Smile ! 
As falls on closing flowers the lunar beam : 
What time, in sickl\- mood, at jxirting day 
I lay me down and think of hapincr years ; 
Of joys that glimmer'd in Hope's twilight ray, 
Then left me darkling in a vale of tears. 
O pleasant days of Hope — for ever gone ! 
Could 1 recall you ! — But that thought is vain. 
Availeth not Persuasion's sweetest tone 
To hue the fleet-wing'd Travellers liack again : 
Vet fair, though faint, their images shall gleam 
Like the bright Rainbow on a willowy stream. 



Dear native Brook ! wild Streamlet of the West ! 

How many various-fated years have past, 

What happy and what mournful hours, since last 
I skimm'd the smooth thin stone along thy breast, 
Numbering its light leaps L yet so deep impressed 
Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes 

I never shut amid the sunny ray. 
But straight with all their tints thy waters rise, 

Thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows grey, 



And bedded sand that vein'd with various dyes, 
Gleam'd through thy bright transj)arcncc ! On my way, 

Visions of Childhood ! oft have ye beguil'd 
Lone manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs : 

Ah ! tliat once more I were a careless Child ! 





Once more, sweet Stream ! with slow foot wandering 

I bless thy milky waters cold and clear. 
Escaped the flashing of the noontide hours. 
With one fresh garland of Pierian flowers 
(Ere from thy zephyr-haunted brink I turn) 
My languid hand shall wreath thy mossy urn. 
For not through pathless grove with murmur rude 
Thou soothest the sad wood-nymph, Solitude ; 
Nor thine unseen in cavern dej)ths to well. 
The Hermit-fountain of some dri])ping cell ! 
Pride of the Vale ! thy useful streams supj)ly 
The scatter'd cots and jieaceful hamlet nigh. 
The elfin tribe around thy friendly banks 
With infant ujnoar and soul-soothing i)ranks, 
Releas'd from school, their little hearts at rest. 
Launch ])apt'r navies on thy waveless breast. 
The rustic here at eve with jiensive look 
Whistling lorn ditties leans u]ion his crook. 
Or, starting, pauses with ho})e-mingled dread 
To list the much-lov'd maid's accustom'd tread : 
She, vainly mindlul of her dame's conuuand. 
Loiters, the long-flll'd ]ntcher in her hand. 
Unboastful Stream ! thy fount with jiebbled falls 
The faded form o{ past delight recalls. 


What time the morning sun of Hope arose, 
And all was joy — save when another's woes 
A transient gloom upon my soul impressed, 
Like passing clouds impictur'd on thy breast. 
Life's current then ran sparkling to the noon, 
Or, silvery, stole beneath the pensive Moon : 
Ah ! now it works rude brakes and thorns among, 
Or o'er the rough rock bursts and foams along ! 




The Pixies, in the superstition of Devonshire, are a race of 
beings invisibly small, and harmless or friendly to man. At 
a small distance from a village in that county, half way up 
a wood-covered hill, is an excavation called the Pixies' Parlour. 
The roots of old trees form its ceiling ; and on its sides are in- 
numerable cyphers, among which the Author discovered his own 
cypher and those o^his brothers, cut by the hand of their child- 
hood. At the foot of the hill flows the river Otter. 

To this place the Author, during the summer months of the 
year 1793, conducted a ]iarty of young ladies, one of whom, 
of stature elegantly small, and of comple.xion colourless yet clear, 
was proclaimed the Faery Queen. On which occasion the follow- 
ing Irregular Ode was written. 


Whom the untaught Shcjiherds call 

Pixies in their madrigal, 
Fancy's children, here we dwell : 

Welcome, Ladies ! to our cell. 
Here the wren of softest note 

Builds its nest and warl)les well ; 
Here tlie l)]ackl)ird strains his throat ; 

Welcome, Ladies ! to our cell. 


When fades the Moon all shadowy-pale, 
And scuds the cloud before the gale, 
Ere morn with li\ing gems liedight. 
Purples the Itast with streaky light. 
We sip the furze-flower's fragrant dews 
Clad in robes of rainbow hues : 
Or sjiort amid the rosy gleam 
Soolh'd by ihc distant-tinkling team, 
While lusty Labour .scouting sorrow 
P)ids the Dame a glad good-morrow. 
Who jogs the accustom' d road along, 
And paces cheery to her cheering song. 


r>\it not our lihny ]Mnion 
We scorch amid the blaze of day, 

When Noontide's fiery-tressed minion 
Flasiies the fervid ray. 





Aye from the sultry heat 

We to the Cave retreat 
3'ercanopied by huge roots intertwined 
With wildest texture, blacken' d o'er with age : 
Round them their mantle green the ivies bind, 

Beneath whose foliage pale ^" 

Fann'd by the unfrequent gale 
\Ve shield us from the Tyrant's mid-day rage. 


Thither, while the murmuring throng 
Of wild-bees hum their drowsy song, 
By Indolence and Fancy brought, 
A youthful Bard, " unknown to Fame," 
Wooes the Queen of solemn Thought, 
\nd heaves the gentle misery of a sigh 
Gazing with tearful eye, 
As round our sandy Grot appear 
Many a rudely-sculptur'd name 
To pensive Memory dear ! 
Weaving gay dreams of sunny-tinctur'd hue 

We glance before his view : 
3'er his hush'd soul our soothing witcheries shed 
\.nd twine our faery garlands round his head. 


When Evening's dusky car 

Crown' d with her dewy star 
Steals o'er the fading sky in shadowy flight ; 

On leaves of aspen trees ^° 

We tremble to the breeze 
V^eil'd from the grosser ken of mortal sight. 

Or, haply, at the visionary hour, 
Mong our wildly-bower'd sequester' d walk, 
We listen to the enamour' d rustic's talk ; 
Heave with the heavings of the maiden's breast, 
Where young-eyed Loves have built their turtle nest ; 

Or guide of soul-subduing power 
The electric flash, that from the melting eye 
Darts the fond question and the soft reply. ^° 




Or through the mystic ringlets of tlie vale 
\Vc flash our faery feet in gamesome prank ; 
Or, silent-sandal' d. jiay our defter court, 
Circling the Spirit of the Western Gale, 
W'lu're, wearied with his flower-caressing sport, 
.Supine he slumbers on a violet bank ; 
Then with (]uaint music hymn the })arting gleam 
By lonely Otter's sleep-persuading stream ; 
Or where his wave with loud uncpiiet song 
Dash'd o'er the rocky channel froths along ; 
Or where, his siK'er waters smooth'd to rest. 
The tall tree's shadow sleeps ujion his i)reast. 


Hence thou lingerer. Light ! 
live saddi>ns into Night. 
Mother of wildlN-working dreams ! wi> view 
The sombre houis. that round thee stand 


With down-cast eyes (a duteous band !) 
^heir dark robes dripping with the heavy dew. 

Sorceress of the ebon throne ! 

Thy power the Pixies own, 8° 

^^'hen round thy raven brow 

Heaven's lucent roses glow, 
And clouds in watery colours dressed 
loat in hght drapery o'er thy sable vest : 
iVhat time the pale Moon sheds a softer day 
lellowing the woods beneath its pensive beam : 
or mid the quivering light 'tis our's to play, 
yye dancing to the cadence of the stream. 


Welcome, Ladies ! to the cell 
Where the blameless Pixies dwell : ^° 

ut thou sweet Nymph ! proclaim' d our Faery Queen, 
With what obeisance meet 
Thy presence shall we greet ? 
or lo ! attendant on thy steps are seen 
Graceful Ease in artless stole. 
And white-robed Purity of soul. 
With Honour's softer mien ; 
Mirth of the loosely-flowing hair, 
nd meek-e^'ed Pity eloquently fair, 
Whose tearful cheeks are lovely to the view, ^°° 

As snow-drop wet with dew. 


Unboastful Maid ! though now the Lily pale 

Transparent grace thy beauties meek ; 
Yet ere again along the impurpling vale. 
The purpling vale and elfin-haunted grove. 
Young Zephyr his fresh flowers profusely throws, 

We'll tinge with livelier hues thy cheek ; 
(And, haply, from the nectar-breathing Rose 
Extract a Blush for Love ! 



THOU wild Fancy, check thy wing ! No more 
Those thin white ilakes, those purple clouds explore ! 
Nor there with happy spirits speed thy flight 
Bathed in rich amber-glowing floods of light ; 

Nor in yon gleam, where slow descends the day, 

With Western peasants hail the morning ray ! 

Ah ! rather bid the perish' d pleasures move, 

A shadowy train, across the soul of Love ! 

O'er Disappointment's wintry desert fling 

Each flower that wreath' d the dewy locks of Spring, ' 

When blushing, like a bride, from Hojie's trim bower 

She leapt, awaken' d by the pattering shower. 

Now sheds the sinking Sun a deeper gleam. 

Aid, lovely Sorceress ! aid thy Poet's dream ! 

With faery wand O bid the Maid arise. 

Chaste Joyance dancing in her bright-blue eyes ; 

As erst when from the Muses' calm abode — 

1 came, with Learning's meed not unbestowed ; 
When as she twined a laurel round my brow, 

And met my kiss, and half return'd my vow, -' 

O'er all my frame shot rapid my thrill'd heart, 
And every nerve confess' d the electric dart. 

dear Deceit ! I see the Maiden rise. 

Chaste Joyance dancing in her bright-l)lue Eyes ! 
When first the lark high soaring swells his throat, 
Mocks the tired eye, and scatters the loud note, 

1 trace her footsteps on the accustom'd lawn, 
I mark her glancing mid the gleam of dawn. 
When the bent llower beneath the night-dew weejrs 
And on the lake the silver lustre sleeps, '*' 
.\mi(l the paly radiance soft and sad. 

She meets ni\' lonel\- path in moon-beams clad. 
With her along the streamlet's l)rink 1 rove ; 
W'itli her I list the warblings of the grove ; 
And seems in each low wind iier voice to float. 
Lone whispering Pity in each soothing note! 



Spirits of Love ! ye heard her name ! Obey 

The powerful spell, and to my haunt repair. 

Whether on clustering pinions ye are there, 

Where rich snows blossom on the Myrtle trees, *" 

Or, with fond languishment, around my fair 

Sigh in the loose luxuriance of her hair ; 

O heed the spell, and hither wing your way, 

Like far-off music, voyaging the breeze ! 

Spirits ! to you the infant Maid was given 
Form'd by the wondrous Alchemy of Heaven ! 
No fairer Maid does Love's wide empire know 
No fairer Maid e'er heav'd the bosom's snow. 
A thousand Loves around her forehead iiy ; 
A thousand Loves sit melting in her eye ; 
Love lights her smile — in Joy's red nectar dips 
His myrtle flower, and plants it on her lips. 
She speaks ! and hark that passion-warbled song- 
Still, Fancy ! still that voice, those notes prolong. 
As sweet as when that voice with rapturous falls 
Shall wake the soften' d echoes of Heaven's Halls ! 


(have I sigh'd) were mine the wizard's rod. 

Or mine the power of Proteus, changeful God ! 

A flower-entangled Arbour I would seem 

To shield my Love from Noontide's sultry beam : ^0 

Or bloom a Myrtle, from whose odorous boughs 

My Love might weave gay garlands for her brows. 

When Twilight stole across the fading vale. 

To fan my love I'd be the Evening Gale ; 

Mourn in the soft folds of her swelling vest, 

And flutter my faint pinions on her breast ! 

On Seraph wing I'd float a Dream by night. 

To soothe my Love with shadows of delight : — 

Or soar aloft to be the Spangled Skies, 

And gaze upon her with a thousand eyes ! 'o 

As when the Savage, who his drowsy frame 
Had bask'd beneath the Sun's unclouded flame, 


Awakes amid the troubles of tlie air. 

The skiey deluge, and white lit^htning's glare — 

Aghast he scours before the Tempest's sweej), 

And sad recalls the sunny hour of sleep : — 

So toss'd by storms along Life's wildering way, 

Mine eye reverted views that cloudless day, 

\\'lien by my native brook I wont to rove, 

While Hope with kisses nursed the Infant Love. ^o 

Dear native brook ! like Peace, so placidly 

Smoothing through fertile fields thy current meek ! 

Dear native brook ! where first young Poesy 

Stared wildly-eager in her noontide dream, 

Where blameless ])leasures dimple Quiet's cheek. 

As water-lilies ri])ple thy slow stream ! 

Dear native haunts ! where Virtue still is gay. 

Where Friendship's fixed star sheds a mellow' d ray, 

Where Love a crown of thornless Roses wears. 

Where soften'd Sorrow smiles within her tears ; "" 

And Memory, with a Vestal's chaste employ, 

Unceasing feeds the lambent fiame of joy ! 

No more your sky-larks melting liom the sight 

Shall thrill the attuned heart-string with delight — 

No more shall deck your pensive Pleasures sweet 

With wreaths of sober hue my evening scat. 

Yet dear to Fancy's eye your varied scene 

Of wood, hill, dale, and sparkling brook between ! 

Yet sweet to Fancy's ear the warbled song. 

That soars on Morning's wing }our vales among. i"" 

Scenes of my Hope ! the aching eye yc leave 
Like von bright lines that ]iaint (he clouds of eve ! 
Tearful and saddening willi tlu' saddeni'd bla/e 
Mine eye the gleam pursues with wistful gaze : 
vSees shades on shades with (U'eper tint impend. 
Till chill and (lain]i the moonless night descend. 



One kiss, dear Maid ! I said and sigh'd — 
Your scorn the little boon denied. 
Ah why refuse the blameless bliss ? 
Can Danger lurk within a kiss ? 

Yon viewless Wanderer of the vale, 
The Spirit of the Western Gale, 
At Morning's break, at Evening's close 
Inhales the sweetness of the Rose, 
And hovers o'er the uninjur'd Bloom 
Sighing back the soft perfume. 
Vigour to the Zephyr's wing 
Her nectar-breathing Kisses fling ; 
And He the ghtter of the Dew 
Scatters on the Rose's hue. 
Bashful, lo ! she bends her head, 
And darts a blush of deeper Red ! 

Too well those lovely lips disclose 
The Triumphs of the opening Rose ; 
O fair ! O graceful ! bid them prove 
As passive to the breath of Love. 
In tender accents, faint and low, 
Well-pleas'd I hear the whisper'd " No ! " 
The whisper'd " No " — how little meant ! 
Sweet Falsehood that endears Consent ! 
For on those lovely lips the while 
Dawns the soft relenting smile, 
And tempts, with feigned dissuasion, coy. 
The gentle violence of Joy. 


49 D 


To THE Editor of the Morning Chronicle 

Sir, — The following poem you may perhaps deem 
admissible into your journal — if not, you will commit it 
(k Upuv nfvm 'Hcf)at(TToio. — I am, with more respect and 
gratitude than I ordinarily feel for Editors of Papers, 
your obliged, &c., 

Cantab. — S. T. C. 


0)1 buying a Ticket in the Irish Lottery , 

Composed during a walk to and from the Queen's I 
Head, Gray's Inn Lane, Holborn, and Hornsby's and] 
Co., Cornhill. 


Promptress of unnumber'd sighs, 

O snatch that circling bandage from thine eyes ! 

look, and smile ! No common prayer 
Solicits, Fortune ! thy propitious care ! 
For, not a silken son of dress, 

1 clink the gilded chains of /)o/z7t'.s\st' ; 
Nor ask thy boon what time I scheme 
Unholy Pleasure's frail and feverish dream ; 
Nor yet my view life's dazzle blinds — 
Pomp ! — ^Grandour ! Power ! — I give you to the winds ! 
].v{ the little bosom cold 
Melt only at the simbcam ray of gold — 
My pale cheeks glow — the big drops start — 
The reln'l lu-eliii'^ riots at my heart ! 
And if in lonely durance ])ent. 
Thy poor mite mourn a brief imprisonment — 
That mite at Sorrow's faintest sound 
Leai>s from its scrip with an elastic bounil ! 
l^ut oh ! if ever song thine ear 
Might soothe, () haste with fost'ring hand to rear 
C)ne I""lower t)f Hope ! .\t Love's behest, i 
Trembling, I ])lac'd it in my secret breast : 



And thrice I've view'd the vernal gleam, 

Since oft mine eye, with joy's electric beam, 

Illum'd it — and its sadder hue 

Oft moistened with the Tear's ambrosial dew ! 

Poor wither'd floweret ! on its head 

Has dark Despair his sickly mildew shed ! 

But thou, O Fortune ! canst relume 

Its deaden'd tints — and thou with hardier bloom 

May'st haply tinge its beauties pale. 

And yield the unsunn'd stranger to the western 

gale ! S. T. C. 

Z~. - ^793- 



Away, those cloudy looks, that labouring sigh, 
The peevish offspring of a sickly hour ! 
Nor meanly thus complain of Fortune's power, 
When the blind Gamester throws a luckless die. 

Yon setting Sun flashes a mournful gleam 
Behind those broken clouds, his stormy train : 
To-morrow shall the many-coloured main 
In brightness roll beneath his orient beam ! 

Wild, as the autumnal gust, the hand of Time 
Flies o'er his mystic lyre : in shadowy dance 
The alternate groups of Joy and Grief advance 
Responsive to his varying strains sublime ! 

Bears on its wing each hour a load of Fate ; 

The swain, who, lull'd by Seine's mild murmurs, led 

His weary oxen to their nightly shed, 

To-day may rule a tempest-troubled State. 


Nor shall not Fortune with a vengeful smile 
Survey the sanguinary Despot's might, 
And haply hurl the Pageant from his height 
Unwept to wander in some savage isle. 

There shiv'ring sad beneath the tempest's frown 
Round his tired limbs to wrap the purple vest ; 
And mix'd with nails and beads, an equal jest ! 
Barter for food, the jewels of his crown. 



The solemn-breathing air is ended — 
Cease, O Lyre ! thy kindred lay ! 

From the poplar-branch suspended 
Glitter to the eye of Day ! 

On thy wires hovering, dying, 
Softly sighs the summer wind : 

I will slumber, careless lying, 
]^y yon waterfall rechn'd. 

In the forest hollow-roaring, 

Hark ! I licar a decp'ning sound — 

Clouds rise thick with heavy louring ! 
See ! th' horizon blackens round ! 

Parent of the soothing measure. 

Let me seize thy wetted string ! 
Swiftlv flies the flatterer. Pleasure. 

Ili-adlong. ever on the wing. 





Vivamus, mea Lesbia, atque amemus. — Catullus. 

My Lesbia, let us love and live, 

And to the winds, my Lesbia, give 

Each cold restraint, each boding fear 

Of Age and all its saws severe. 

Yon Sun now posting to the main 

Will set, — but 'tis to rise again ; — 

But we, when once our little light 

Is set, must sleep in endless night. 

Then come, with whom alone I'll live, 

A thousand kisses take and give ! 

Another thousand ! — to the store 

Add hundreds — then a thousand more ! 

And when they to a million mount, 

Let Confusion take the account, — ' 

That you, the number never knowing, 

May continue still bestowing — ■ 

That I for joys may never pine. 

Which never can again be mine ! 



Lugete, O Veneres, Cupidinesque. — Catullus. 

Pity, mourn in plaintive tone 

The lovely starling dead and gone ! 

Pity mourns in plaintive tone 

The lovely starling dead and gone. 

Weep, ye Loves ! and Venus, weep 

The lovely starling fall'n asleep ! 

Venus sees with tearful eyes — 

In her lap the starling lies, 

While the Loves all in a ring 

Softly stroke the stiffen'd wing. 



The Hour-bell sounds, and I must go ; 

Death waits — again I hear him calling ; — 

No cowardly desires have I, 

Nor will I shun his face ai)palling. 

I die in faith and honour rich — 

But ah ! I leave behind my treasure 

In widowhood and lonely pain ; — 

To live were surely then a pleasure ! 

My lifeless eyes upon thy face 
Shall never open more to-morrow ; 
To-morrow shall thy beauteous eyes 
Be closM to love, and drown'd in sorrow ; 
To-morrow Death shall freeze this hand, 
And on thy breast, my wedded treasure, 
I never, never more shall live ; — 
Alas ! I quit a life of pleasure. 


Yet art thou happier far than she 
Who feels the widow's love for thoe ! 
For while her days are days of weeping, 
Thou, in jieace, in silence sleeping, 
In some still workl, unknown, remote, 

The Miglity Parent's caro hast found. 
Without whose tender guardian thought 

No sparrow falleth to the ground.^ i 




When Youth his faery reign began 
Ere Sorrow had proclaim'd me man ; 
While peace the present hour beguil'd, 
And all the lovely Prospect smil'd ; 
Then, Mary ! 'mid my hghtsome glee 
I heav'd the painlessSigh for thee. 

And when, along the waves of woe. 
My harass'd Heart was doom'd to know 
The frantic Burst of Outrage keen, 
And the slow Pang that gnaws unseen ; 
Then shipwreck'd on Life's stormy sea 
I heav'd an anguish'd Sigh for thee ! 

But soon Reflection's power impressed 
A stiller sadness on my breast ; 
And sickly Hope with waning eye 
Was well content to droop and die : 
I yielded to the stern decree, 
Yet heav'd a languid Sigh for thee ! 

And though in distant climes to roam, 
A wanderer from my native home, 
I fain would soothe the sense of Care, 
And lull to sleep the Joys that were ! 
Thy Image may not banish' d be — 
Still, Mary ! still I sigh for thee. 



' OF TH- > 




Richer than Miser o'er his countless hoards, 
Nobler than Kin|^s, or king-polluted Lords, 
Here dwelt the Man of Ross ! O Traveller, hear ! 
Departed Merit claims a reverent tear. 
Friend to the friendless, to the sick man health. 
With generous joy he view'd his modest wealth ; 
He hears the widow's heaven-breath'd prayer of 

He marks the sheltered orphan's tearful gaze, 
Or where the sorrow-shrivell'd cajitive lay, 
Pours the bright blaze of Freedom's noon-lide ray. 
Beneath this roof if thy cheer'd moments pass. 
Fill to tlie good man's name one grateful glass : 
To higher zest shall Memory wake thy soul. 
And Virtue mingle iji the ennobled bowl. 
But if, hke me, through Life's distressful scene 
Lonely and sad thy jiilgrimnge hath been ; 
And if, thy breast with heart-sick anguish fraught, 
Thou journeyest onward tempest-tossed in thought ; 
Here cheat thy cares ! in generous visions melt. 
And dream of Goodness, thou hast never felt ! 



If, while my jxassion I imjxirt. 

You deem my words untrue, 
O place your hand upon my heart — 

Feel how it throbs for yoii ! 

Ah no ! reject the thoughtless claim 

In ]Mty to your Lover ! 
That thrilling touch would aid the flame 

It wishes to discover. 



Tell me, on what holy ground 
May Domestic Peace be found ? 
Halcyon Daughter of the skies. 
Far on fearful wings she flies, 
From the pomp of Scepter' d State, 
From the Rebel's noisy hate. 
In a cottag'd vale She dwells, 
Listening to the Sabbath bells ! 
Still around her steps are seen 
Spotless Honour's meeker mien. 
Love, the sire of pleasing fears. 
Sorrow smiling through her tears, 
And conscious of the past employ 
Memory, bosom-spring of Joy. 




Near the lone pile with ivy overspread, 

Fast by the rivulet's sleep-persuading sound, 

Where "sleeps the Moonlight " on yon verdant bed- 
O humbly press that consecrated ground ! 

For there does Edmund rest, the learned swain ! 

And there his sj)irit most delights to rove : 
Young Edmund ! famed for each harmonious strain, 

And the sore wounds of ill-requited love. 

Like some tall tree that spreads its branches wide. 
And loads the west-wind with its soft perfume, 

His manhood blossom'd ; till the faithless pride 
Of fair Matilda sank him to the tomb. 

But soon did righteous Heaven her guilt pursue ! 

Where'er with wilder'd step she wander'd pale. 
Still Edmund's image rose to blast her view. 

Still Edmund's voice accused her in each gale. 

With keen regret, and conscious Guilt's alarms. 
Amid the pomji of Affluence she pined ; 

Nor all that lured her faith from lulmund's arms 
Could lull the wakeful horror of her mind. 

Go, Traveller ! tell the tale with sorrow fraught : 
Some tearful maid perchance, or blooming youth, 

]\Iay hold it in remembrance ; and be taught 
That Riches cannot pay for Love or Truth. 






Maid of unboastful charms ! whom white-robed 

Right onward guiding through the maze of youth, 
Forbade the Circe Praise to witch thy soul, 
And dash'd to earth th' intoxicating bowl : 
Thee meek-eyed Pity, eloquently fair, 
Gasp'd to her bosom with a mother's care ; 
And, as she lov'd thy kindred form to trace, 
The slow smile wander'd o'er her pallid face. 

For never yet did mortal voice impart 
Tones more congenial to the sadden'd heart : 
Whether, to rouse the sympathetic glow, 
Thou pourest lone Monimia's tale of woe ; 
Or haplv clothest with funereal vest 
■ The bridal loves that wept in Juliet's breast. 
O'er our chill limbs the thrilling Terrors creep, 
Th' entranced Passions their still vigil keej) ; 
While the deep sighs, responsive to the song, 
Sound through the silence of the trembling throng. 

But purer raptures lighten' d from thy face, 
And spread o'er all thy form an holier grace, 
When from the Daughter's breast the Father drew 
The life he gave, and mix'd the big tear's dew. 
Nor was it thine th' heroic strain to roll 
With mimic feelings foreign from the soul : 
Bright in thy Parent's eye we mark'd the tear ; 
Methought he said, " Thou art no Actress here ! 
j A semblance of thyself the Grecian dame, 
! And Brunton and Euphrasia still the same ! " 

soon to seek the City's busier scene. 
Pause thee awhile, thou chaste-eyed maid serene, 



Till Granta's sons from all her sacred bowers 
With grateful hand shall weave Pierian flowers 
To twine a fragrant chaplet round thy brow, 
Enchanting Ministress of virtuous Woe ! 




That darling of the Tragic Muse, 
When Wrangham sung her praise, 

Thalia lost her rosy hues, 
And sicken'd at her lays : 

But transient was th' unwonted sigh ; 

For soon the Goddess spied 
A sister-form of mirthful eye 

And danced for joy and cried : 

" Meek Pity's sweetest child, proud Dame, 

The fates ha\-e given to 3'ou ! 
Still hid your Poet boast her name ; 

/ have my Brunton too." 



Eke Sin could blight or Sorrow fade, 
Dcalli came witli friendly care ; 

The opening imd to Heaven convey'd, 
And bade it blossom there. 



Thou bleedest, my poor Heart ! and thy distress 

Reasoning I ponder with a scornful smile 

And probe thy sore wound sternly, though the while 

Swoln be mine eye and dim with heaviness. 

Why did'st thou listen to Hope's whisper bland ? 

Or, listening, why forget the healing tale, 

When Jealousy with feverish fancies pale 

Jarred thy fine fibres with a maniac's hand ? 

Faint was that Hope, and rayless ! — Yet 'twas fair 

And sooth'd with many a dream the hour of rest : 

Thou should'st have lov'd it most, when most 

And nurs'd it with an agony of care. 
Even as a mother her sweet infant heir 
That wan and sickly droops upon her breast ! 



Much on my early youth I love to dwell. 

Ere yet I bade that friendly Dome farewell, 

Where first, beneath the echoing cloisters pale, 

I heard of Guilt and wonder'd at the tale ! 

Yet though the hours flew by on careless wing, 

Full heavily of Sorrow would I sing. 

Aye as the star of evening flung its beam 

In broken radiance on the wavy stream. 

My soul amid the pensive twilight gloom 

Mourn'd with the breeze, O Lee Boo ! * o'er thy tomb. ^^ 

* Lee Boo, the son of Abba Thule, Prince of the Pelew 
Islands, came over to England with Captain Wilson, died of the 
smallpox, and is buried in Greenwich churchyard. See Keate's 



Where'er I wander'd, Pity still was near, 
Ereath'd from the heart and glisten'd in the tear : 
No knell that toU'd, but fiUd my anxious eye, 
And suffering Nature wept that one should die ! * 

Thus to sad sympathies I sooth 'd my breast, 

Calm as the rainbow in the weeping West : 

When slumbering Freedom rous'd by high Disdain 

With giant fury burst her triple chain ! 

Fierce on her front the blasting Dog-star glow'd ; 

Her Banners, hke a midnight Meteor, fiow'd ; -" 

Amid the yelling of the storm-rent skies 

She came and scatter' d battles from her eyes I 

Then Exultation waked the patriot fire 

And swept with wilder hand the Alca^an lyre : 

Red from the Tyrant's wound I shook the lance, 

And strode in joy the reeking plains of France ! 

Fallen is the Oppressor, friendless, ghastly, low, 
And my heart aches, though Mercy struck the blow. 
With wearied thought once more I seek the shade, 
Where jwaccful \ irtuc weaves the Myrtle braid. 
And O ! if Eyes whose holy glances roll. 
Swift messengers, and eloquent of soul ; 
If Smiles more winning, and a gentler Mien 
Tlian the love-wilder'cl IManiac's brain hath seen 
Shaping celestial forms in vacant air, 
If these demand the impassion'd Poet's care — 
If Mirtli and soften'd Sense and Wit rotin'd, 
The blameless features of a lovely mind ; 
,TJi«n ha))ly shall my trembling hand assign 
No fading wreath to Beauty's saintly shrine. 
Nor, Sara ! tliou tliese early flowers refuse — 
Ne'er lurk'd the snake beneath llieir simple hues ; 
No purple bloom the Child of Nature brings 
From Flattery's night-shade — as ho feels he sings. 

* Southcy's Retrospect. 





Poor little Foal of an oppressed Race ! 

I love the languid Patience of thy face : 

And oft with gentle hand I give thee bread, 

And clap thy ragged Coat, and pat thy head. 

But what thy dulled Spirits hath dismay'd, 

That never thou dost sport along the glade ? 

And (most unhke the nature of things young) 

That earthward still thy moveless head is hung ? 

Do thy prophetic Fears anticipate, 

Meek Child of Misery ! thy future fate ? — 

The starving meal, and all the thousand aches 

" Which patient Merit of the Unworthy takes ? " 

Or is thy sad heart thrill'd with fihal pain 

To see thy wretched Mother's shorten'd Chain ? 

And truly, very piteous is her Lot — 

Chain'd to a Log within a narrow spot 

Where the close-eaten Grass is scarcely seen, 

While sweet around her waves the tempting Green ! 

Poor Ass ! thy Master should have learnt to shew 

Pity — best taught by fellowship of Woe ! 

For much I fear me that He lives, like thee, 

Half famish'd in a land of Luxury ! 

How askingly its footsteps hither bend ! 

It seems to say, " And have I then one Friend ? " 

Innocent Foal ! thou poor despised Forlorn ! 

I hail thee Brother — spite of the fool's scorn ! 

And fain would take thee with me, in the Dell 

Of Peace and mild Equality to dwell, ^^^""^^^^c^^ 

Where Toil shall call the charmer Health his Bride, ^^ 

And Laughter tickle Plenty's ribless side ! 

How thou wouldst toss thy heels in gamesome play, 

And frisk about, as Lamb or Kitten gay ! 

Yea ! and more musically sweet to me 

Thy dissonant harsh Bray of Joy would be. 

Than warbled Melodies that soothe to rest 

The aching of pale Fashion's vacant breast ! 



Ungrateful he, who pluck'd thee from thy stalk, 

Poor faded fiow'ret ! on his careless way ; 

Inhal'd awhile thy odours on his walk, 

Then onward pass'd and left thee to decay. 

Ah ! melancholy emblem ! had I seen 

Thy modest beauties dew'd with Evening's gem, 

I had not rudely cropp'd thy parent stem, 

But left thee, blushing, 'mid the enliven'd green. 

And now I bend me o'er thy wither'd bloom, 

And drop the tear — as Fancy, at my side. 

Deep-sighing, points the fair frail Abra's tomb — 

" Like thine, sad flower, was that poor Wanderer's 

pride ! 
Oh ! lost to Love and Truth, whose selfish J03' 
Tasted her vernal sweets, but tasted to destroy ! " 



Pale Roamcr through the night ! thou jioor Forlorn ! 

Remorse that man on his drath-bed jiosscss, 

Who in the credulous hour of tenderness 

Betrayed, then cast thee forth to want and scorn ! 

The World is ]>itilcss : the chaste one's jnidc 

Mimic of Virtue scowls on thy distress : 

Thy Loves and they that envied thee deride ; 

And Vice alone will shelter wretchedness ! 

! I could wiH'p to think that [\\c\c sliould be 

Cold-bosom'd lewtl ones, who enchue to place 

Foul offerings on the shrine of Misery. 

And force from Famine the caress of Love ; 

May He shed healing on thy sore disgrace, 

He, the great Comforter tiiat rules above ! 




IDMUND ! thy grave with aching eye I scan, 
Lnd inly groan for Heaven's poor outcast — Man ! 
[Tis tempest all or gloom : in early youth 
If gifted with the Ithuriel lance of Truth 
Ve force to start amid her feign'd caress ■ 

fice, siren-hag ! in native ugliness ; 

Brother's fate will haply rouse the tear, 
ind on we go in heaviness and fear ! 
Jut if our fond hearts call to Pleasure's bower 
)ome pigmy Folly in a careless hour, lo 

"he faithless guest shall stamp the enchanted ground, 
ind mingled forms of Misery rise around : 
leart-fretting Fear, with pallid look aghast, 
That courts the future woe to hide the past ; 
lemorse, the poison'd arrow in his side, 
md loud lewd Mirth, to Anguish close alhed : 
Pill Frenzy, fierce-ey'd child of moping Pain, 
)arts her hot lightning-flash athwart the brain. 

'est, injur'd Shade ! Shall Slander squatting near 
Spit her cold venom in a Dead Man's ear ? -" 

'Twas thine to feel the sympathetic glow 
In Merit's joy, and Poverty's meek woe ; 
Thine all, that cheer the moment as it flies, 
The zoneless Cares, and smiling Courtesies. 
Nurs'd in thy heart the firmer Virtues grew. 
And in thy heart they wither' d ! Such chill dew 
Wan Indolence on each young blossom shed ; 
And Vanity her filmy net-work spread, 
With eye that roll'd around in asking gaze. 
And tongue that trafftck'd in the trade of praise. ^^ 

Thy folUes such ! the hard world niark'd them well ! 
Were they more wise, the Proud who never fell ? 
Rest, injur'd Shade ! the poor man's grateful prayer 
On heaven-ward wing thy wounded soul shall bear. 


As oft at twilight gloom thy grave I pass, 

And sit me down upon its recent grass, 

With introverted eye I contemplate 

Similitude of soul, i)erhaps of — Fate ! 

To me hath Heaven with bounteous hand assign'd 

Energic Reason and a sha})ing mind, ^' 

The daring ken of Truth, the Patriot's part. 

And Pity's sigh, that breathes the gentle heart — 

Sloth-jaundic'd all ! and from my graspless hand 

Dro}) Friendship's precious pearls, like hour-glass sand. 

1 weep, yet stoop not ! the faint anguish flows, 

A dreamy pang in Morning's feverish doze. 

Is this piled earth our Being's passless mound ? 
Tell me, cold Grave ! is Death with poppies crown'd ? 
Tired Centinel ! mid fitful starts I nod. 
And tain would sleep, though pillow'd on a clod ! ^' 



Schiller ! that hour I would have wish'd to die, 
H thro' the shuddering midnight I had sent 
From the dark dungeon of the Tower time-rent 

That fearful voice, a famish'd Father's cry — 

Lest in some after-moment aught more mean 
Might stamp me mortal ! A triumphant shout 
Black Horror scrcam'd, and all her goblin rout 

Diminish'il shrunk from the more withering scene ! 

Ah ! Bard tremendous in sublimity ! 
Could I behold thee in thy loftier mood 

\\'antlering at eve with linely-frenzied eye 

J^)cneath some vast old tempest-swinging wood ! 

Awliile with mute awe gazing I wouUl brood, 
Then \\cv\) aloud in a wikl ecstasy ! 

1 794. 



Thus far my scanty brain hath built the rhyme 

Elaborate and swelling : yet the heart 

Not owns it. From thy spirit-breathing powers 

I ask not now, my Friend ! the aiding verse, 

Tedious to thee, and from thy anxious thought 

Of dissonant mood. In fancy (well I know) 

From business wandering far and local cares, 

Thou creepest round a dear-lov'd Sister's bed 

With noiseless step, and watchest the faint look, 

Soothing each pang with fond solicitude, 

And tenderest tones medicinal of love. 

I too a Sister had, an only Sister — 

She lov'd me dearly, and I doted on her ! 

To her I pour'd forth all my puny sorrows, 

(As a sick Patient in his Nurse's arms) 

And of the heart those hidden maladies 

That will shrink ashamed from even Friendship's eye. 

! I have woke at midnight, and have wept. 

Because she was not ! — Cheerily, dear Charles ! 

Thou thy best friend shalt cherish many a year : 

Such warm presagings feel I of high Hope. 

For not uninterested the dear maid 

I've view'd — her soul affectionate yet wise. 

Her pohsh'd wit as mild as lambent glories 

That play around a samted infant's head. 

He knows (the Si)irit that in secret sees). 

Of whose omniscient and all-spreading Love 

Aught to implore * were impotence of mind) 

That my mute thoughts are sad before his throne, 

Prepar'd, when he bis healing ray vouchsafes. 

To pour forth thanksgiving with lifted heart. 

And praise Him Gracious with a Brother's Joy ! 

I utterly recant the sentiment contained in the lines — 
"Of whose omniscient and all-spreading Love 
Aught to implore were impotence of mind," 
it being written in Scripture, "Ask, and it shall be given you," 
and my human reason being moreover convinced of the pro- 
priety of offering petitions as well as thanksgivings to Diety. 
[Note of S. T. C, in Poems, 1797.] 









When British Freedom for a liappior land 

Spread her broad wings, that tlutter'd witli affriglit, 
Erskine ! tliy voice she heard, and paus'd her thglit 

SubHme of hope ! For dreadless thou didst stand 

(fhy censer glowing with the hallow'd flame) 
An hirelcss Priest before the insulted shrine, 
And at her altar jiour the stream divine 

Of unmatched eloquence. Therefore thy name 

Her Sons shall venerate, and cheer thy breast 

With blessings heavenward breath'd. And when the 

Of Nature bids thee die. beyond the tomb 

Thy light shall shine : as sunk beneath the West 

Though the great Summer Sun eludes our gaze. 

Still burns wide Heaven with his distended blaze. 




As late I lay in Slumber's shadowy vale, 

With wetted cheek and in a mourner's guise, 
I saw the sainted form of Freedom rise : 

She spake ! not sadder moans the autumnal gale — 

" Great Son of Genius ! sweet to me thy name, 
Ere in an evil hour with altered voice 
Thou bad'st Oppression's hireling crew rejoice. 

Blasting with wizard spell my laurell'd fame. 

Yet never, Burke ! thou drank'st Corruption's bowl I 
Thee stormy Pity and the cherish' d lure 
Of Pomp, and proud precipitance of soul 

Wilder'd with meteor fires. Ah Spirit pure ! 

" That Error's mist had left thy purged eye : 
So might I clasp thee with a Mother's joy ! " 



Though, rous'd by that dark Vizir, Riot rude 
Have driven our Priestley o'er the ocean swell ; 
Though Superstition and her wolfish brood 

Bay his mild radiance, impotent and fell ; 

Calm in his halls of Brightness he shall dwell ! 
For lo ! Religion at his strong behest 
Starts with mild anger from the Papal spell, 

And flings to Earth her tinsel-glittering vest. 

Her mitred state and cumbrous pomp unholy ; 
And Justice wakes to bid th' Oppressor wail 
Insulting aye the wrongs of patient Folly ; 

And from her dark retreat by Wisdom won 

Meek Nature slowly lifts her matron veil 
To smile with fondness on her gazing son ! 




My heart has thank'd thee, Bowles ! for those soft 
That on the still air floating, tremblingly 
Wak'tl in me Fancy, Love, and Sympathy ! 

For hence, not callous to a Brother's pains 

Thro' Youth's gay prime and thornless paths I went ; 
And, when the darker day of life began, 
And T did roam, a thought-bewilder'd man ! 

Thy kindred Lays an healing solace lent, 

Each lonely pang with dreamy joys combin'd, 
And stole from vain Regret her scorpion stings ; 
While shadowy Pleasure, with mysterious wings, 

Brooded the wavy and tumultuous mind. 

Like that great Spirit, who with plastic sweep 
Mov'd on the darkness of the formless Deep ! 



As when far off the warbled strains are heard 
That soar on Morning's wing the vales among, 
Within his cage the imprison'd matin bird 

Swells the full chorus with a generous song : 

He bathes no pinion in the dewy light, 

No Father's joy, no Lover's liliss he shares. 
Yet still the rising radiance cheers his sight — 

His fellows' freedom soothes the captive's cares ! 

Thou, Fayette ! who didst wake with startling voice 
Life's better sun from that long wintry night. 
Thus in lliy Coimtry's trium]i]is shalt rejoice 

And mock with raptures high the dungeon's might : 

For lo ! the morning struggles into day, 

And Slavery's spectres sluiek and vanish from the ray ! 

*^* The above beautiful sonnet was written anteccilcntly to 
the joyful account of tlie Patriot's escape from the Tyrant's 
Dungeon. [Note in M. Ch., December 15, 1794.] 



O WHAT a loud and fearful shriek was there, 

As though a thousand souls one death-groan pour'd ! 
Ah me ! they view'd beneath an hireling's sword 

Their Koskiusko fall ! Through the swart air 

(As pauses the tired Cossac's barbarous yell 
Of Triumph) on the chill and midnight gale 
Rises with frantic burst or sadder swell 

The dirge of murder'd Hope ! while Freedom pale 

Bends in such anguish o'er her destin'd bier, 
As if from eldest time some Spirit meek 
Had gather'd in a mystic urn each tear 

That ever on a Patriot's furrow'd cheek 

Fit channel found, — and she had drain'd the bowl 
In the mere wilfulness, and sick despair of soul ! 



It was some Spirit, Sheridan ! that breath'd 
O'er thy young mind such wildly-various power ! 
My soul hath mark'd thee in her shaping hour, 

Thy temples with Hymettian * flow'rets wreath'd : 

And sweet thy voice, as when o'er Laura's bier 
Sad music trembled thro' Vauclusa's glade ; 
Sweet, as at dawn the love-lorn serenade 

That wafts soft dreams to Slumber's listening ear. 

Now patriot Rage and Indignation high 

Swell the full tones ! And now thine eye-beams dance 
Meanings of Scorn and Wit's quaint revelry ! 

Writhes inly from the bosom-probing glance 

The Apostate by the brainless rout adored. 

As erst that elder Fiend beneath great Michael's Sword. 

* Hymettus, a mountain of Attica famous for honey. 



O form'd t' illume a sunless world forlorn, 
As o'er the chill and dusky brow of Night, 
In Finland's wintry skies the mimic morn * 

Electric pours a stream of rosy light, 

Pleas'd I have mark'd Oppression, terror-pale. 
Since, thro' the windings of her dark machine, 
Thy steady eye has shot its glances keen — 

And bade th' all-lovely " scenes at distance hail." 

Nor will I not thy holy guidance bless, 

And hymn thee, Godwin ! with an ardent lay ; 
For that thy voice, in Passion's stormy day. 

When wild I roam'd the bleak heath of Distress, 

Bade the bright form of Justice meet my way — 
And told me that her name was Happiness. 

1 794. 



SouTHEY ! thy melodies steal o'er mine ear 
Like far-off joyance, or the murmuring 
Of wild bi'es in llie sunny showers ol Spring — 

Sounds of such mingled import as may cheer 

The lonely breast, yet rouse a mindful tear : 

Waked by the Song doth Hojie-born Fancy lling 
Rich showers of dewy fragrance from her wing. 

Till sickly Passion's droojiing Myrtles sear 

* Aurora Honalis. 


Blossom anew ! But O ! more thrill'd, I prize 
Thy sadder strains, that bid in Memory's Dream 

The faded forms of past Dehght arise ; 

Then soft, on Love's pale cheek, the tearful gleam 

Of Pleasure smiles — as faint yet beauteous lies 
The imaged Rainbow on a willowy stream. 



Not always should the tear's ambrosial dew » 
Roll its soft anguish down thy furrow' d cheek ! 
Not always heaven-breath'd tones of suppliance 

Beseem thee, Mercy ! Yon dark Scowler view. 

Who with proud words of dear-lov'd Freedom came — 
More blasting than the mildew from the South 
And kiss'd his country with Iscariot mouth 

(Ah ! foul apostate from his Father's fame !) * 

Then fix'd her on the cross of deep distress, 
And at safe distance marks the thirsty lance 
Pierce her big side ! But O ! if some strange trance 

The eye-lids of thy stern-brow'd Sister f press, 

Seize, Mercy ! thou more terrible the brand, 
And hurl her thunderbolts with fiercer hand ! 



As when a child on some long winter's night 
Affrighted clinging to its Grandam's knees 
With eager wond'ring and perturb'd delight 

Listens strange tales of fearful dark decrees 

* Earl of Chatham. t Justice. 


Mutter'd to wretch by necromantic spell ; 
Or of those Hags, who at the witching time 
Of murky midnight ride the air sublime, 

And mingle foul embrace with fiends of Hell : 

Cold Horror drinks its blood ! Anon the tear 
More gentle starts, to hear the Beldame tell 
Of pretty babes, that loved each other dear. 

Murder' d by cruel Uncle's mandate fell : 

Even such the shivering joys thy tones impart, 
Even so thou, Siddons ! meltest my sad heart ! 



Not, Stanhope ! with the Patriot's doubtful name, 
I mock thy worth — Friend of the Human Race ! 
Since, scorning Faction's low and partial aim. 

Aloof thou wendest in thy stately pace, 

Thyself redeeming from that leprous stain. 
Nobility : and aye unterrify'd 
Pourest thine Abdiel warnings on the train 

That sit complotting with rebellious pride 

'Gainst Her * who from the Almighty's bosom leapt 
With wliirlwind arm, fierce Minister of Love ! 
Wherefore, ere Virtue o'er thy tomb liatli wept. 

Angels shall lead thee to the Throne above : 

And thou from forth its clouds shalt hear the voice, 

Champion of Freedom and her God ! rejoice ! 

♦ Gallic Liberty. 



EVE OF 1794 

This is the time, when most divine to hear. 
The voice of Adoration rouses me, 
As with a Cherub's trump : and high upborne, 
Yea, minghng with the Choir, I seem to view 
The vision of the heavenly multitude, 
Who hymn'd the song of Peace o'er Bethlehem's 
fields ! 

Yet thou more bright than all the Angel blaze, • 

That harbinger'd thy birth. Thou, Man of Woes ! 

Despised Galilaean ! For the Great 

Invisible (by symbols only seen) 

With a peculiar and surpassing light 

Shines from the visage of the oppress'd good Man, 

When heedless of himself the scourged Saint 

Mourns for the Oppressor. Fair the vernal Mead, 

Fair the high Grove, the Sea, the Sun, the Stars — 

True impress each of their creating Sire ! 

Yet nor high Grove, nor many-colour'd Mead, 

Nor the green Ocean with his thousand Isles^ 

Nor the starr'd Azure, nor the sovran Sun, 

E'er with such majesty of portraiture ^^ 

Imag'd the Supreme Beauty Uncreate, 

As thou, meek Saviour ! at the fearful hour 

When thy insulted Anguish wing'd the prayer 

Harp'd by Archangels, when they sing of Mercy ! 

Which when the Almighty heard from forth his 

Diviner light fill'd Heaven with ecstacy ! 
Heaven's hymnmgs paus'd : and Hell her yawning 

Clos'd a brief moment. 

Lovely was the death 
Of him whose life was Love ! Holy with power 




He on the thought-benighted Sceptic beam'd 3° 

Manifest Godhead, melting into day 

What floating mists of dark Idolatry 

Broke and misshaped the Omnipresent Sire : 

And first by Fear uncharm'd the drouscd Soul,* 

Till of its nobler Nature it 'gan feel 

Dim recollections ; and thence soar'd to Hope, 

Strong to believe whate'er of mystic good. 

The Eternal dooms for his immortal Sons. 

From Hope and firmer Faith to perfect Love 

Attracted and al^isorb'd : and centred there 

God only to behold, and know, and feel, 

Till by exclusive consciousness of God 

All self-annihilated it shall make 

God its identity : God all in all ! 

We and our Father one ! ^■ 

And blessed are they, 
Who in this fleshly World, the elect of Heaven, 
Their strong eye darting through the deeds of Men, 
Adore with steadfast un]Mrsuming gaze 
Him Nature's Essence, Mind, and Energy ! 
And gazing, trembling. ]iatiently ascend 
Treading beneath tlieir Icet all \-isi])le things 
As steps, that upward to their Father's Throne 
Lead gradual — else nor glorified nor lov'd. 
They nor Contempt emlxisom nor Revenge : 
For they dare know of what may seem deform 
The Supreme Fair sole Operant : in whose sight 
All tilings an> ])ure, his strong controlling Love 
Alike from all educing perfect good. 
Theirs, too, celestial courage, inly arm'd — 
Dwarfing Earth's giant brood, what time they muse 
On tlu-ir great Father, givat In-vond coini)are ! 
And maicliing onwards view liigh o'er their heads 
His wa\ iiig Haimers of Omnii)otence. 



* To SoijTi)!' ^i;iin'iKatTi>' (Is ito\\o>v 
Oftai* (fit(iT»;Tfiy. 

Damns, de Myst. .Egyf^t. 



Who the Creator love, created might 

Dread not : within their tents no Terrors walk. 

For they are Holy Things before the Lord 

Aye unprofaned, though Earth should league with 

God's Altar grasping with an eager hand 
Fear, the wild-visag'd, pale, eye-starting wretch, 
Sure-refug'd hears his hot pursuing fiends 
Yell at vain distance. Soon refresh'd from Heaven 
He calms the throb and tempest of his heart. 
His countenance settles ; a soft solemn bliss 
Swims in his eye — his swimming eye uprais'd : 
And Faith's whole armour glitters on his limbs ! 
And thus transfigur'd with a dreadless awe, 
A solemn hush of soul, meek he beholds 
All things of terrible seeming ; yea, unmov'd 
Views e'en the immitigable ministers 
That shower down vengeance on these latter days. ^° 
For kindling with intenser Deity 
From the celestial Mercy-seat they come, 
And at the renovating wells of Love 
Have fill'd their Vials with salutary Wrath, 
To sickly Nature more medicinal 
Than what soft balm the weeping good man pours 
, Into the lone despoiled traveller's wounds ! 

Thus from the Elect, regenerate through faith, 

Pass the dark Passions and what thirsty Cares 

Drink up the spirit, and the dim regards ^° 

Self-centre. Lo they vanish ! or acquire 

New names, new features — by supernal Grace 

Enrobed with Light, and naturalis'd in Heaven. 

As when a Shepherd on a vernal morn 

Through some thick fog creeps timorous with slow 


Darkling he fixes on the immediate road . 
His downward eye : all else of fairest kind 
Hid or deform'd. But lo ! the bursting Sun ! 
Touch'd by the enchantment of that sudden beam 
Straight the black vapour melteth, and in globes i"" 

Of dewy glitter gems each plant and tree ; 


On eVery leaf, on every blade it hangs ! 

Dance glad the new-born intermingling rays, 

And wide around the landscape streams with glory ! 

There is one Mind, one omnipresent Mind, 

Omnific. His most holy name is Love. 

Truth of subliming import ! with the which 

Who feeds and saturates his constant soul. 

He from his small particular orbit flies 

With blessed outstarting ! From Himself he flies, "° 

Stands in the Sun, and with no partial gaze 

Views all creation ; and he loves it all. 

And blesses it, and calls it very good ! 

This is indeed to .clwell with the most High ! 

Cherubs and rapture-trembling Seraphim 

Can press no nearer to the Almighty's Tlirone. 

But that we roam unconscious, or with hearts 

Unfeeling of our universal Sire, 

And that in his vast family no Cain 

Injures uninjur'd (in her best-aim'd blow ^-" 

Victorious Murder a blind Suicide) 

Haply for this some younger Angel now 

Looks down on Human Nature : and, behold ! 

A sea of blood bestrew'd with wrecks, where mad 

Embattling Interests on each other rush 

With unhelm'd Rage ! 

I I 'Tis the sublime of man, 

Our noontide Majesty, to know ourselves 
Parts and jiroportions of one wond'rous whole ! 
This fraternises man. this constitutes 
Our charities and bearings. But 'tis God '^" 

Diffus'd through all. that doth make all one whole ; 
This the worst superstition, him except. 
Aught to desire, — Supreme Reality ! 
The i^lenitudc and permanence of bliss ! 
() Fit-nds of Superstition ! not that oft 
The erring Priest hath stain'd with Brother's blood 
Your grisly idols, not for this may Wrath 
Thunder against you from the Holy One ! 
Hut o'er some i>]ain that steaineth to tlic Sun, 


Peopled with Death ; or where more hideous Trade ^^" 

Loud-laughing packs his bales of human anguish ; 

I will raise up a mourning, O ye Fiends ! 

And curse your spells, that film the eye of Faith, 

Hiding the present God ; whose presence lost — 

The moral world's cohesion — we become 

An Anarchy of Spirits ! toy-bewitch'd, 

Made blind by lusts, disherited of soul, 

No common centre Man, no common Sire 

Knoweth ! A sordid solitary thing, 

Mid countless brethren (with a lonely heart) ^^^ 

Through courts and cities the smooth Savage roams 

Feeling himself, his own low Self the whole ; 

When he by sacred sympathy might make 

The whole one self ! self, that no alien knows ! 

Self, far diffu'd as Fancy's wing can travel ! 

Self, spreading still ! Obhvious of its own, 

Yet all of all possessing ! This is Faith ! 

This the Messiah's destin'd victory ! 

But first offences needs must come ! Even now * 

(Black Hell laughs horrible — to hear the scoff !) ^^^ 

Thee to defend, meek Galilaean ! Thee 

And thy mild laws of Love unutterable, 

Mistrust and Enmity have burst the bands 

Of social Peace ; and listening Treachery lurks 

With pious fraud to snare a brother's life ; 

And childless widows o'er the groaning land 

Wail numberless ; and orphans weep for bread ! 

* January 21, 1794, in the debate on the Address to his 
Majesty, on the speech from the Throne, the Earl of Guildford 
moved an Amendment to the following effect : " That the House 
hoped his Majesty would seize the earliest opportunity to con- 
clude a peace with France, &c." This motion was opposed 
by the Duke of Portland, who " considered the war to be merely 
grounded on one principle — the preservation of the Christian 
Religion." May 30, 1794, the Duke of Bedford moved a number 
of Resolutions, with a view to the Establishment of a Peace 
with France. He was opposed (among others) by Lord Abingdon 
in these remarkable words : " The best road to Peace, my 
Lords, is War ! and War carried on in the same manner in which 
we are taught to worship our Creator, namely, with all our souls, 
and with all our minds, and with all our hearts, and with all our 



Thee to defend, dear Saviour of Mankind ! 
Thee, Lamb of God ! Thee, blameless Prince of 

Peace ! 
From all sides rush the thirsty brood of War, — 
Austria, and that foul Woman of the North, 
The lustful Murderess of her wedded Lord ! 
And he, connatural Mind ! whom (in their songs 
So bards of elder time had haj^ly feign'd) 
Some Fury fondled in her hate to man, 
Bidding her serpent hair in mazy surge 
Lick his young face, and at his mouth imbreathe 
Horrible sympathy ! And leagu'd with these 
Each jK'tty Gorman princeling, nurs'd in gore ! 
Soul-hardcn'd barterers of human blood ! **" 

Death's jirimc Slave-merchants ! Scorpion-whips of 

Fate ! 
Nor least in savagery of holy zeal, 
Ajit for the yoke, the race degenerate, 
Whom Britain erst had blush 'd to call her sons ! 
Thee to defend, the Moloch Priest prefers 
The prayer of Hate, and bellows to the herd 
That Deity, Acomjilice Deity 
In the fierce jealousy of waken'd wrath 
Will go forth with our armies and our fleets 
To scatter the red ruin on their foes ! '*" 

O blas])hem\' ! to mingle fiendish deeds 
With blessedness ! 

Lord of unsleeping Love,* 
From everlasting Thou ! We shall not die. 
These, even these, in mercy didst thou form. 
Teachers of Good througli l£vil, by brief wrong 
Making Truth lovely, and her future might 
Magnetic o'er the fix'd untrembling heart. 

In tlif jn-imeval age, a dateless while, 
The vacant Shepherd wander'd with his flock, 
Pitching his tent wluMc'er the green grass wav'd. -"" 

PiUt sdon Imagination coujur'il up 

• An lliuu not (iDiii c'veilasliii},'. O Lord my tioil, mine Holy 
One ? \vi' shall not tlie. O Lord, thou hast ordaincil them 
for jndKincnt, iVc. — Habakkuk. \. 12. > 




A host of new desires : with busy aim, 

Each for himself, Earth's eager children toil'd. 

So Property began, twy-streaming fount, 

Whence Vice and Virtue flow, honey and gall. 

Hence the soft couch, and many-colour'd robe. 

The timbrel, and arch'd dome and costly feast, 

With all the inventive arts, that nurs'd the soul 

To forms of beauty, and by sensual wants 

Unsensualis'd the mind, which in the means 2^° 

Learnt to forget the grossness of the end, 

Best pleasur'd with its own activity. 

And hence Disease that withers Manhood's arm. 

The dagger'd Envy, spirit-quenching Want, 

Warriors, and Lords, and Priests — all the sore ills 

That vex and desolate our mortal life. 

Wide-wasting ills ! yet each the immediate source 

Of mightier good. Their keen necessities 

To ceaseless action goading human thought 

Have made Earth's reasoning animal her Lord ; 220 

And the pale-featur'd Sage's trembling hand 

Strong as an host of armed Deities, 

Such as the blind Ionian fabled erst. 

From Avarice thus, from Luxury and War (?- 

Sprang heavenly Science ; and from Science Freedom. 

O'er waken'd realms' Philosophers and Bards 

Spread in concentric circles : they whose souls, 

Conscious of their high dignities from God, 

Brook not Wealth's rivalry ! and they who long ^30 

Enamour'd with the charms of order hate 

The unseemly disproportion : and whoe'er 

Turn with mild sorrow from the victor's car 

And the low puppetry of Thrones, to muse 

On that blest triumph, when the Patriot Sage 

Call'd the red lightnings from the o'er-rushing cloud 

And dash'd the beauteous Terrors on the earth 

Smiling majestic. Such a phalanx ne'er 

Measur'd firm paces to the calming sound 

Of Spartan flute ! These on the fated day. 

When, stung to rage by Pity, eloquent men 240 

Have rous'd with peaHng voice the unnumber'd tribes 



That toil and groan and lik-td, hungry and bhnd, — 

These hush'd awhile with j)atient eye serene 

Shall watch the mad careering of the storm ; 

Then o'er the wild and wavy chaos rush 

And tame the outrageous mass, with })lastic might 

Moulding Confusion to such i)erfect forms, 

As erst were wont, — bright visions of the day ! — 

To f^oat before them, when, the Summer noon, 

Beneath some arch'd romantic rock rechn'd -*" 

They felt the sea breeze lift their youthful locks ; 

Or in the month of blossoms, at mild eve, 

Wandering with desultory feet, inhal'd 

The wafted i)erfumes, and the Hocks and woods 

And many-tinted streams and setting Sun 

With all his gorgeous company of clouds 

Ecstatic gazed ! then homeward as they stray'd 

Cast the sad eye to earth, and inly mus'd 

Why there was Misery in a world so fair. 

Ah ! far remov'd from all that glads the sense, '-''^ 

From all that softens or ennobles i\Ian, 

The wretched Many ! Bent beneath their loads 

They gape at pageant Power, nor recognise 

Their cots' transmuted plunder ! From the tree 

Of Knowledge, ere the vernal sap had risen, 

Kudely disbranch'd ! Blessed Society ! 

Fitliest dcjiictur'd bv some sun-scorched waste. 

Where oft majestic through the tainted noon 

The Simoom sails, before whose purple pomp 

Who falls not jirostrate dies ! And where, by night, -" 

Fast by each precious fountain on green herbs 

The lion couches ; or hyxna dips 

Deep in the lucid stream his bloody jaws ; 

Or serpent plants his \-ast luoon glittering bulk. 

Caught in whose monstrous twine Ijcheniolh * j'ells, 

His bones loud-crashing ! 

O ye numberless, 
Whom foul Oppression's ruffian gluttony 

* Bclu'iiiotli, ill II(l)r(\v, signifies wiUl hcasts in goner 
Sniiu- belii'vi- it is (lif I'lcpliant, soiiu" the liip|>oi)otaimis ; sot 
allirni it is the wilil hull, rocticallj'. it ik-sii^natcs any larj 



Drives from Life's plenteous feast ! O thou poor 

Who nurs'd in darkness and made wild by want 
Roamest for prey, yea thy unnatural hand ~^^ 

Dost lift to deeds of blood ! O pale-ey'd Form, 
The victim of seduction, doom'd to know 
Polluted nights and days of blasphemy ; 
Who in loath'd orgies with lewd wassailers 
Must gaily laugh, while thy remember'd Home 
Gnaws like a viper at thy secret heart ! 
aged Women ! ye who weekly catch 
The morsel toss'd by law-forc'd Charity, 
And die so slowly, that none call it murder ! 
loathly Suppliants ! ye, that unreceiv'd 290 

Totter heart-broken from the closing gates 
Of the full Lazar-house ; or, gazing, stand 
Sick with despair ! O ye to Glory's field 
Forc'd or ensnar'd, who, as ye gasp in death, 
Bleed with new wounds beneath the vulture's beak ! 
thou poor Widow, who in dreams dost view 
Thy Husband's mangled corse, and from short doze 
Start'st with a shriek : or in thy half-thatch'd cot 
Wak'd by the wintry night-storm, wet and cold, 
Cow'r'st o'er thy screaming baby ! Rest awhile, '^"^ 
Children of Wretchedness ! More groans must rise, 
More blood must stream, or ere your wrongs be full. 
Yet is the day of Retribution nigh : 
The Lamb of God hath open'd the fifth seal : 
And upward rush on swiftest wing of fire 
The innumerable multitude of Wrongs 
By man on man inflicted ! Rest awhile. 
Children of Wretchedness ! The hour is nigh ; 
And lo ! the Great, the Rich, the Mighty Men, 
The Kings and the Chief Captains of the World, ^1^ 

With all that fix'd on high like stars of Heaven 
Shot baleful influence, shall be cast to earth. 
Vile and down-trodden, as the untimely fruit 
Shook from the fig-tree by a sudden storm. 
Even now the storm begins : * each gentle name, 
I Faith and meek Piety, with fearful joy 

* Alluding to the French Revolution. 



Tri'inhle far-off — for lo ! the Giant Frenzy 
Uprootin;^' eni|)irfs with his whirhvind arm 
Mocketh hif^'h Heaven ; burst hideous from the cell 
Where the old Hag, unconquerable, huge, 
Creation's eyeless drudge, black Ruin, sits 
Nursing the impatient Kartlujuake. 

O return ! 
Pure Faith ! meek Piety ! The abhorred Form 
W'hosf scarlet robe was stiff with earthly pomp, 
Who drank iniquity in cups of gold, 
Whose names were many and all blasphemous, 
Hath met the horrible judgment ! Whence that 

cry ? 
The mighty army of foul Spirits shriek'd 
Disherited of earth ! For she hath fallen 
On whose black front was written Mystery ; 
She that reel'd heavily, whose wine was blood ; 
She that W'ork'd whoredom with the Diemon Power, 
And from the dark embrace all evil things 
Brought forth and nurtur'd : mitred Atheism, 
And j^atient Folly who on bended knee 
Gives back the steel that stabb'd him ; and pale 

Haunted by ghastlier shapings than surround 
Moon-blasted Madness when he yells at mithiight ! 
Return ])ure Faith ! return meek Pietv ! 
The kingdoms of the world are yours : each heart 
Self-govern'd, the vast family of Love 
Rais'd from the common earth by common toil 
Enjoy the equal ]irotluce. Such delights 
As float to earth, jiermitted visitants ! 
When in some hour of solemn juliilee 
The massy gates of Paradise are thrown 
Wide open, and forth come in fragments wilil 
Sweet echoes of unearthly meloilies. 
And odours snatch'd from beds of Amarantli. 
And they, that from the crystal river of life 
Sjiring up on freshen'd wing, ambrosial gales ! 
The favour'd good man in liis lonely walk 
Perci'ives them, and his silent sjiirit ilrinks 
Strange bliss which he shall rect)gnise in Hea\en. 






And such delights, such strange beatitude 

Seize on my young anticipating heart 

When that blest future rushes on my view ! 

For in his own and in his Father's might 

The Saviour comes ! While as the Thousand Years 

Lead up their mystic dance, the Desert shouts ! ^*"' 

Old Ocean claps his hands ! The mighty Dead 

Rise to new life, whoe'er from earliest time 

With conscious zeal had urg'd Love's wondrous plan, 

Coadjutors of God. To Milton's trump 

The high groves of the renovated Earth 

Unbosom' d their glad echoes : inly hush'd. 

Adoring Newton his serener eye 

Raises to Heaven : and he of mortal kind 

Wisest, he * first who mark'd the ideal tribes 

Up the fine fibres through the sentient brain. •''"• 

Lo ! Priestley there, patriot, and saint, and sage, — 

Him, full of years, from his lov'd native land 

Statesmen blood-stain' d and Priests idolatrous 

By dark lies maddening the blind multitude 

Drove with vain hate. Calm, pitying he retir'd, 

And mus'd expectant on these promis'd years. 

Years ! the blest preeminence of Saints ! 

Ye sweep athwart my gaze, so heavenly-bright, 

The wings that veil the adoring Seraphs' eyes, 

What time they bend before the Jasper Throne f 

Reflect no lovelier hues ! yet ye depart, 

And all beyond is darkness ! Heights most strange. 

Whence Fancy falls, fluttering her idle wing. 

For who of woman born may paint the hour. 

When seiz'd in his mid course, the Sun shall wane 

Making noon ghastly ! Who of woman born 

May image in the workings of his thought, 

How the black-visag'd, red-ey'd Fiend outstretch'd J 

Beneath the unsteady feet of Nature groans, 

* David Hartley. 

t Rev. chap. iv. ver. 2, and 3 : And immediately I was in the 
Spirit : and, behold, a Throne was set in Heaven, and one sat 
on the Throne. And he that sat was to look upon like a jasper 
and a sardine stone. &c. 

;J: The final Destruction impersonated. 




In feverish slumbers — destin'd then to wake, 
W'lien fiery whirlwinds thunder his dread name 
And angels shout. Destruction ! How his arm 
The last great Spirit lifting high in a'r 
Shall swear by Him, the ever-living CnCj^^— ^ 
Time is no more ! r-^ 

Relieve thou, O my soul, 
Life is a vision shadowy of Truth ; 
And vice, and anguish, and the wormy grave, 
Shapes of a dream ! The veiling clouds retire, 
And lo ! the Throne of the redeeming God 
Forth flashing unimagina1)lc day 
Wraps in one blaze Earth, Heaven, and deepest Hell. 



Contemplant Spirits ! ye that hover o'er 

With untir'd gaze the immeasurable fount 

Ebullient with creative Deity ! 

And ye of plastic power, that interfus'd 

Roll through the grosser and material mass 

In organizing surge ! Holies of God ! 

(And what if Monads of the infinite mind ?) 

1 hai)ly journeying my immortal course 

Shall sometime join your mystic choir! Till then ■•'° 

I discipline my young noviciate thought 

In ministeries of heart-stirring song. 

And aye on Meditation's heavenward wing 

Soariiig aloft I breathe the empyreal air 

Of Love, omnific, omnipresent Love, 

Whose day-sjiring rises glorious in my soul 

As tiie great Sun, when he his influence 

Sheds on the frost-bound waters— The glad stream 

Flows to the ray, and warbles as it flows. /( 



Whilst pale Anxiety, corrosive Care, 

The tear of Woe, the gloom of sad Despair, 

And deepen' d Anguish generous bosoms rend ; — 
Whilst patriot souls their country's fate lament ; 
Whilst mad with rage demoniac, foul intent, 

Embattled legions Despots vainly send 
To arrest the immortal mind's expanding ray 

Of everlasting Truth ; — I other climes 
Where dawns, with hope serene, a brighter day 

Than e'er saw Albion in her happiest times, 
With mental eye exulting now explore. 

And soon with kindred minds shall haste to enjoy 
(Free from ills which here our peace destroy) 
Content and Bliss on Transatlantic shore. 



Low in a barren vale I see thee sit 

Cow' ring, while Winter blows her shiv'ring blast 

Over thy reedy fire — pale, comfortless ; 

Blest Independence with elastic foot 

Spurns thy low dwelling, while the sons of joy 

Turn from thy clouded brow, or with a scowl 

Contemptuous, mark thee. At thy elbow stand 

Famine and wan Disease ! two meagre forms. 

Thy only visitants, who, tho' repell'd, 

Officious tend thee — wretched Eremite ! 

Around thy cell, ah ! wherefore see I grav'd 

The sacred names of Genius ! Spenser here 

Found his last refuge, Otway, Butler, too, 

And Scotia's last not least heroic Bard ! 


TO THE REV. \V. J. H. 



Hush ! ye clamorous Cares ! be mute ! 

Again, dear Harmonist ! again 
Thro" the hollow of thy flute 

Breatlie that passion-warbled strain : 
Till Memory each form shall bring 

Tlic loveliest of her shadowy throng ; 
And Hope, that soars on sky-lark wing, 

Carol wild her gladdest song ! 


() skill'd with magic s}iell to roll 

The thrilHng tones, that concentrate the soul ! 

Breathe tliro' thy flute those tender notes again, 

While near thee sits the chaste-ey'd Maiden mild ; 

And bid her raise the Poet's kindred strain 

In soft impassion'd voice, conectly wild. 


In Freedom's rxDivinr.n (Ull. 
Where Toil and Hculth with mollow'd Love shall dwrll. 

Far from Folly, far from men. 

In the rude romantic glen. 

l']) the cliff, and thro' tlie ghule. 

W andiiing with tlu' dear-lov'tl maiil, 

I shall listen to the lay. 

And ponder on thee far away — 
Still, as she bids those thrilling notes aspire 
(" Making my fond attuned heart her lyre"), 
Thy honour'd form, my Friend ! shall reap}x:ar, 
Anil I will thank tlitc with a raptur'd tear. 




Sweet Mercy ! how my very heart has bled 
To see thee, poor Old Man ! and thy gray hairs 
Hoar with the snowy blast : while no one cares 

To clothe thy shrivell'd limbs and palsied head. 

My Father ! throw away this tattered vest 

That mocks thy shivering ! take my garment — use 
A young man's arm ! I'll melt these frozen dews 

That hang from thy white beard and numb thy breast. 

My Sara too shall tend thee, like a child : 
And thou shalt talk, in our fireside's recess, 
Of purple Pride, that scowls on Wretchedness. — 

He did not so, the Galilaean mild. 

Who met the Lazars turn d from rich men's doors, 
And call'd them Friends, and heal'd their noisome sores 



Sister of love-lorn Poets, Philomel ! 
How many Bards in city garret pent, 
While at their window they with downward eye 
Mark the faint lamp-beam on the kennell'd mud. 
And listen to the drowsy cry of Watchm en, 
(Those_ hoarse_unfeathe£jd ,Nightin"g ales ofJEime !), 
How many wretched Bards address thy name, 
And hers, the full-orb' d Queen that shines above. 
But I do hear thee, and the high bough mark. 
Within whose mild moon-mellow' d foliage hid 
Thou warblest sad thy pity-pleading strains. 

! I hav e hsten'd^ill my wo rkjjig^oul. 
Wak^Qpyj JlOSe sfraip sjo thpusgn rl phanta ^ipq , 

-)Sorh'£ Lhath ceas'd to listen ! Therefore oft 

1 hymn thy name : and with a proud delight 
Oft will I tell thee. Minstrel of the Moon ! 

" Most musical, most melancholy " Bird ! 



That all tliy soft (Hversitics oM ong, 

Tho' .swcL'tcr far tluui the delicious airs 

That vibrate from a white-arm' d Lady's harp, 

W'luit time the languishment of lonely love 

Melts in her eye, and heaves her breast of snow. 

Are not so sweet as is the voice of her, 

My Sara — best bclov'd of human kind ! 

When breathine; tiic pure soul of tenderness 

She thrills me with the Husband's promis'd name ! 




With many a pause and oft-reverted eye 

I climb the Coomb's ascent : sweet songsters near 

Warble in shade their wild-wood melody : 

Far off the unvarving Cuckoo soothes mv ear. 

Up scour the startling stragglers of the Flock 

That on green plots o'er jnecipices browse : 

From the forc'd fissures of the naked rock 

The Vt'w tree bursts ! Beneath its dark green boughs 

(Mid which the May-thorn blends its blossoms white) 

Where broad smooth stones jut out in mossy seats, 

I rest : — and now have gain'd the topmost site. 

Ah ! what a lu\ur\' of landscape meets 

My gaze ! I'loud Towers, and Cots more dear to me. 

Elm-shadowed Fields, and prospect-bounding Sea ! 

IXi'p siglis my i»Miely heart : I drop the tear : 

I'lK banting spot ! C) weie m\ Sara here ! 




Peace, that on a lilied bank dost love 
To rest thine head beneath an Ohve Tree, 

1 would, that from the pinions of thy Dove 
One quill withouten pain yplucked might be I 
For ! I wish my Sara's frowns to flee. 

And fain to her some soothing song would write, 
Lest she resent my rude discourtesy, 
Who vow'd to meet her ere the morning light, 
But broke my plighted word — ah ! false and recreant 
wight ! 

Last night as I my weary head did pillow ^° 

With thoughts of my dissever'd Fair engross' d, 
Chill Fancy droop' d wreathing herself with willow, 
As though my breast entomb' d a pining ghost. 
" From some blest couch, young Rapture's bridal 

Rejected Slumber ! hither wing thy way ; 
But leave me with the matin hour, at most ! 
As night-clos'd Floweret to the orient ray. 
My sad heart will expand, when I the Maid survey." 

But Love, who heard the silence of my thought, 
Contrived a too successful wile, I ween : ^^ 

And whisper' d to himself, with malice fraught — 
" Too long our Slave the Damsel's smiles hath seen : 
To-morrow shall he ken her alter' d mien ! " 
He spake, and ambush' d lay, till on my bed 
The morning shot her dewy glances keen. 
When as I 'gan to lift my drowsy head — 
" Now, Bard ! Fll work thee woe ! " the laughing 
Elfin said. 

Sleep, softly-breathing God ! his downy wing 
Was fluttering now, as quickly to depart ; 




When twang'd an arrow from Love's mystic string. 
With pathless wound it pierc'd him to the heart. 
Was there some Magic in the Elfin's dart ? 
Or did he strike my couch with wizard lance ? 
For straight stj fair a Form did upwards start 
(No fairer deck'd the Bowers of old Romance) 
That Sleep enamour'd grew, nor mov'd from his sweet 
Trance ! 


My Sara came, with gentlest Look divine ; 

Bright slione her Eye. yet tender was its beam : 

I felt the pressure of her lip to mine ! 

Whispering we went, and Love was all our theme — 

Love pure and spotless, as at first, I deem, 

He sprang from Heaven ! Such joys with Sleep did 

That I the living Image of my Dream 
Fondly forgot. Too late I woke, and sigh'd — 
" O ! liow shall I liohold my Love at even-tide ! " 





Mv pensive Sara ! thy soft check reclined 
Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is 
To sit beside our cot. our cot o'ergrown 
With white-tlower'il Jasmin, and the l>r(>ad-lea\-'d 

(Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love !) 
And watch the clouds, that late were rich with light 
Slow saildenin^ round, ami mark the star of eve 
Serenely brilliant (such should wisdom be) 
Shine opposite ! How cxcpiisite the scents 
Snatch'd fnmi \on be.Tu-firld ! an<l lh«' world so 

husir.l ! 



The stilly murmur of the distant Sea 
Tells us of Silence. 

And that simplest Lute, 
Placed length-ways in the clasping casement, hark ! 
How by the desultory breeze caress' d, 
Like some coy maid half-yielding to her lover, 
It pours such sweet upbraiding, as must needs 
Tempt to repeat the wrong ! And now, its strings v^^^ 

Boldlier swept, the long sequacious notes I ^f 

Over delicious surges sinlTahd rise,- -^-<;)i^^<''^ "' 
Such a soft floating witchery of sound ' - 2" 

As twilight Elfins make, when they at eve 
Voj^age on gentle gales from Fairy-Land, 
Where melodies round honey-drojipingJlawers, 
Footless and wild, like birds of Paradise, 
Nor pause, nor perch, hovering on untam'd wing ! 
O ! the One Life within us ancl abroad, 
Which meets all motion and becomes its Soul, 
A light in sound, a sound-like power in light. 
Rhythm in all thought, and joyance everywhere — 

SMethinks, it should have been impossible \'l^ — - ^^ 

Not to love all things in a world so filled ;\ \ 
Where the breeze warbles, and the mute still air 
Is Music slumbering on her instrument. 

And thus, my love ! as on the midway slope 
Of yonder hill I stretch my limbs at noon, 
Whilst through my half-clos'd eyelids I behold 
The sunbeams dance, like diamonds, on the main, 
And tranquil muse upon tranquillity ; 
Full many a thought uncall'd and undetain'd, 
And many idle flitting phantasies, ^^ 

Traverse my indolent and passive brain. 
As wild and various as the random gales 
That swell and flutter on this subject lute ! 

And what if all of animated nature 
Be but organic harps diversely fram'd. 
That tremble into thought, as o'er them sweeps 
Pastic and vast, one intellectual Breeze, 
At once the Soul of each, and God of All ? 


But thy more serious eye a mild reproof 
Darts, O beloved Woman ! nor such thoughts 
Dim and unhallow'd dost tliou not reject, 
Andbiddc-st me walk humbly with ni^- God. 
Meek Daughter in life Family of Christ ! 
Well hast thou said and holily disprais'd 
These shajiings of the unregenerate mind ; 
Hubbies that glitter as they rise and break 
On vain Philosophy's aye-babbling spring. 
Eor never guiltless may I sjicak of him. 
The Incomjirehensible ! save when with awe 
I praise him, and with Faith that inly feds ; 
Who with his saving mercies healed me, 
A sinful and most miserable Man, 
Wilder' d and dark, and gave me to possess 
Peace, and this Cot, and Thee, heart-honour'd 
Maid ! 







Dim Hour ! that sleep'st on pillowing clouds afar, 
O rise and yoke the Turtles to thy car ! 
Hend o'er the traces, blame each lingering Dove, 
And give me to the bosom of my Love ! 
My gentle Love, caressing and carcss'd, 
Witli heaving heart shall cradle me to rest ! 
Shed tlu- waini tear-drop from her smiling eyes. 
Lull with fond woe, and medicine me with sighs ! 
While tineh-llushin^ ilcxit her kisses meek, 
Like melted rubies, o'l'r mv pallid cheek. 
Chill'd by the night, the tlrooping Rose of May 
Mourns the long absence of the lovely Day ; 


Young Day returning at her promis'd hour 
Weeps o'er the sorrows of her favourite Flower ; 
Weeps the soft dew, the bahny gale she sighs, 
And darts a trembling lustre from her eyes. 
New life and joy th' expanding flow' ret feels : 
His pitying Mistress mourns, and mourning heals ! 


[Joseph Cottle] 

published anonymously at bristol 
in september i795 

Unboastful Bard ! whose verse concise yet clear 

Tunes to smooth melody unconquer'd sense. 

May your fame fadeless live, as " never sere " 

The Ivy wreathes yon Oak, whose broad defence 

Embowers me from Noon's sultry influence ! 

For, like that nameless Rivulet stealing by, 

Your modest verse to musing Quiet dear 

Is rich with tints heaven-borrow' d : the charm' d eye 

Shall gaze undazzled there, and love the soften' d sky. 

Circling the base of the Poetic mount ^" 

A stream there is, which rolls in lazy flow 

Its coal-black waters from Oblivion's fount : 

The vapour-poison' d Birds, that fly too low, 

Fall with dead swoop, and to the bottom go. 

Escap'd that heavy stream on pinion fleet 

Beneath the Mountain's lofty- frowning brow. 

Ere aught of perilous ascent you meet, 

A mead of mildest charm delays th' unlabouring feet. 

Not there the cloud-climb' d rock, sublime and vast, 
That like some giant king, o'er-glooms the hill ; ^° 

Nor there the Pine-grove to the mid-night blast 
Makes solemn music ! But th' unceasing rill 


To the soft Wren or Lark's descending trill 
Murniurs sweet undersong 'mid jasmin bowers. 
In this same jileasant meadow, at your will 
1 ween, \()U wander'd— there collecting flowers 
Of sober tint, and herbs of med'cinable powers ! 

Tlu're for the monarch-niurder'd Soldier's tomb 
Vou wcjve th' unlinishM * wreath of saddest hues ; 
And to that holier t chaplet added bloom ^° 

Besjirinkling it with Jordan's cleansing dews. 
But lo ! your Henderson % awakes the Muse — 
His Sj)irit beckon'd from the mountain's height ! 
You left the i)lain and .soar'd mid richer views ! 
So Nature mourn'd when sank the First Dav's light, 
With stars, unseen before, spangling her robe of 
night ! 

Still soar, my Friend, those richer views among, 

Strong, rapid, fervent, flashing Fancy's beam ! 

\'irtue and Truth shall love your gentler song ; 

Hut Poesy demands th' impassion'd theme : *° 

Wak'd 1)V Heaven's silent dews at Eve's mild gleam 

^^'hat balmy sweets Pomona breathes around ! 

l^ut if the vext air rush a stormy stream 

Or Autumn's sluill gust moan in plaintive sound. 

With liuits and flowers she loads the tempest-honor'd 


* " War," a I-rapmcnt. 

t " Joliii I?a))tist," a poem. 

X " Slduoily DU Julin Ili'iidcrsoii." 



SJie had lost her Silver Thimble, and her complaint 
being accidentally overheard by him, her Friend, he 
immediately sent her four others to take her choice of 

As oft mine eye with careless glance 
Has gallop' d thro' some old romance, 
Of speaking Birds and Steeds with wings, 
Giants and Dwarfs, and Fiends and Kings ; 
Beyond the rest with more attentive care 

I've lov'd to read of elfin-favour'd Fair 

How if she long'd for aught beneath the sky 

And suffer' d to escape one votive sigh, 

Wafted along on viewless pinions aery 

It laid itself obsequious at her feet : i" 

Such things, I thought, one might not hope to meet 

Save in the dear delicious land of Faery ! 

But now (by proof I know it well) 

There's still some peril in free wishing 

Politeness is a licensed spell. 

And you, dear Sir ! the Arch-magician. 

You much perplex' d me by the various set : 

They were indeed an elegant quartette ! 

My mind went to and fro, and waver' d long ; 

At length I've chosen (Samuel thinks me wrong) -" 

That, around whose azure rim 

Silver figures seem to swim. 

Like fleece-white clouds, that on the skiey Blue, 

Waked by no breeze, the self-same shapes retain ; 

Or ocean-Nymphs with limbs of snowy hue 

Slow-floating o'er the calm cerulean plain. 

Just such a one, mon cher ami, 
iXhe finger shield of Industry) 
/ Th' inventive Gods, I deem, to Pallas gave\ 
What time the vain Arachne, madly brave / ^^ 

97 G 



Challenged the blue-eyed Virgin of the sky 

A duel in embroider'd work to try. 

And hence the thimbled Finger of grave Pallas 

To th' erring Needle's point was more than callous. 

But ah the poor Arachne ! She unarm' d 

Blundering thro' hasty eagerness, alarm'd 

With all a Rival's hopes, a Mortal's fears. 

Still miss'd the stitch, and stain'd the web with tears. 

Unnumber'd punctures small yet sore 

Full fretfully the maiden bore, 

Till she her lily linger found 

Crimson'd with many a tiny wound ; 

And to her eyes, suffus'd with watery woe. 

Her flower-embroidcr'd web danc'd dim, I wist, 

Like blossom' d shrubs in a quick-moving mist : 

Till vanquish'd the despairing Maid sunk low. 

Bard ! whom sure no common Muse inspires, 

1 heard your \'crse that glows with ve>tal lires ! 
And I from unwatch'd needle's erring point 
Had surely suffer'il on each fmger joint 

Those wounds, which erst did j:)oor Arachne meet ; 
W'liilc he, the much-lov'd Object of my choice 
(My bosom thrilhng with enthusiast heat), 
Pour'd on mint' car with deep impressive voice, 
How the great Prophet of the Desart stood 
And preach'd of Penitence by Jordan's Flood ; 
( )n War ; or else the legendary lays 
In simplest measures luinu'd to Alla's praise ; 
Or what the Bard from his heart's inmost stores 
O'er his Friend's grave in loftier numbers pours : 
Yes, Bard jiolite ! you l>ut obey'd the laws 
Of Justice, when the thiml)le you had sent ; 
What wounds your thought-bewildering Muse might 

'Tis well your fmger-shielding gift-^ ]irr\ent. 








Good verse most good, and bad verse then seems better 
Received from absent friend by way of Letter. 
For what so sweet can labour'd lays impart 
As one rude rhyme warm from a friendly heart ? 


Nor travels my meand'ring eye 

The starry wilderness on high ; 
Nor now with curious sight 

I mark the glow-worm, as I pass, 

Move with " green radiance " * through the grass, 
An Emerald of Light. 

ever-present to my view ! 
My wafted spirit is with you, 

And soothes your boding fears : 

1 see you all oppressed with gloom ^° 
Sit lonely in that cheerless room — 

Ah me ! You are in tears ! 

Beloved Woman ! did you fly 

Chill' d Friendship's dark disliking eye, 

Or Mirth's untimely din ? 
With cruel weight these trifles press 
A temper sore with Tenderness, 

When aches the Void within. 

But why with sable wand unblessed 

Should Fancy rouse within my breast 20 

Dim-visag'd shapes of Dread ? 
Untenanting its beauteous clay 
My Sara's soul has wing'd its way. 

And hovers round my head ! 

* The expression " green radiance " is borrowed from Mr. 
Wordsworth, a Poet whose versification is occasionally harsh 
and his diction too frequently obscure : but whom I deem un- 
rivalled among the writers of the present day in manly sentiment, 
novel imagery, and vivid colouring. [Note to Poems, 1796.] 




I felt it prompt the tender Dream, 
When slowly sank the clay's last gleam ; 

You rous'd each gentler sense, 
As sighing o'er the Blossom's bloom 
Meek Evening wakes its soft perfume 

With viewless influence. ^° 

And hark, my Love ! The sea-breeze moans 
Through yon reft house ! O'er rolling stones 

With broad impetuous sweep 
The fast-incroaching tides supply 
The silence of the cloudless sky 

With mimic thunders deep. 

Dark reddening from the channel'd Isle * 
(Where stands one solitary pile 

Unslated by the blast) ' 
The Watchfne, like a sullen star ^° 

Twinkles to many a dozing Tar 

Rude-cradled on the mast. 

Ev'n there — beneath that lighthouse tower — 
In the tumultuous evil hour 

Ere Peace with Sara came. 
Time was, I should have thought it sweet 
To count the echoings of my feet, 

And watch the storm-vex'd flame. 

And there in black soul-jaundic'd flt 
A sad gloom-jiamper'd Man to sit, 

And listen to the roar : 
When mountain Surges bellowing deep 
With an uncouth monster leaj) 

J'hmg'd foaming on the shore. 

Then by the Lightning's blaze to mark 
Some toiling tem]H'st-shatter'd bark ; 
Her vain tlistress-guns hear ; 

• Tlir Iloliiifs, in the Bristol Cliamiil. 



And when a second sheet of hght 
Flash' d o'er the blackness of the night— 

To see no Vessel there ! ®" 

But Fancy now more gaily sings ; 
Or if awhile she droop her wings, 

As sky-larks 'mid the corn, 
On summer fields she grounds her breast : 
The oblivious Poppy o'er her nest _ 

Nods, till returning morn. 

O mark those smiling tears, that swell 
The open'd Rose ! From heaven they fell. 

And with the sun-beam blend ; 
Blessed visitations from above, '° 

Such are the tender woes of Love 

Fostering the heart, they bend ! 

When stormy Midnight howling round 
Beats on our roof with clatt'ring sound, 

To me your arms you'll stretch : 
Great God ! you'll say — ^To us so kind, 

shelter from this loud bleak wind 
The houseless, friendless wretch ! 

The tears that tremble down your cheek, 

Shall bathe my kisses chaste and meek ^" 

In Pity's dew divine ; 
And from your heart the sighs that steal 
Shall make your rising bosom feel 

The answ'ring swell of mine ! 

How oft, my Love ! with shapings sweet 

1 paint the moment, we shall meet ! 
With eager speed I dart — 

I seize you in the vacant air. 
And fancy, with a Husband's care 

I press you to my heart ! ^^ 



'Tis said, in Summer's evening hour 
Flashes the goklen-colour'd tlower 

A fair electric flame : 
And so shall flash my love-charg'd eye 
When all the Heart's big ecstacy 

Shoots rapid through the frame ! 


Sermoni propriora. — Hor. 

Low was our jiretly Cot ; our tallest Rose 

Peep'd at the chamber-wimlow. We could hear 

At silent noon, and eve, and early mprn, 

The Sea's faint murmur. In the open air 

Our Myrtles blossom'd ; and across the Porch 

Thick jasmins twin'<l : the little landscape round, 

Was green and woody, and refresh'd the eye. 

It was a spot which you might ajitly call 

The Valley of Seclusion ! Once I saw 

(Hallowing his Sabbath-day by quietness) '° 

A wtalthy son of Commerce saunter by. 

Hristowa's citizen : * methought, it cahn'tl 

His thirst of idle gold, and made him muse 

With wiser feelings : for he paus'd and look'd 

With a pleas'd satlness, and gaz'd all around, 

TluMi eyed our Cottage, and gaz'd rountl again. 

And sigh'd, and saiil, il was a blcsscii place. 

And we iiirc blesseil. Oft with patient ear 

Long-listening to the viewless sky-lark's note 

(Viewless, or liaply for a moment seen 20 

(ileaming on sunny wing) in whisper'd tones 

I've said to mv beloved, " Such, sweet girl ! 

The inobtrusive song of Haj^piness, 

• Chattcrton. 


Ah ! cease thy Tears and Sobs, my little Life ! 

I did but snatch away the unclasp' d Knife : 

Some safer Toy will soon arrest thine eye, 

And to quick Laughter change this peevish cry ! 

Poor Stumbler on the rocky coast of Woe, 

Tutor' d by Pain each source of Pain to know ! 

Alike the foodful fruit and scorching fire 

Awake thy eager grasp and young desire : 

Alike the Good, the 111 offend thy sight, 

x\nd rouse the stormy Sense of shrill Affright ! 

Untaught, yet wise ! mid all thy brief alarms 

Thou closely clingest to thy Mother's arms. 

Nestling thy little face in that fond breast 

Whose anxious Heavings lull thee to thy rest ! 

Man's breathing Miniature ! thou mak'st me sigh — 

A Babe art thou — and such a Thing am I ! 

To anger rapid and as soon appeas'd, 

For trifles mourning and by trifles pleas' d. 

Break Friendship's Mirror with a tetchy blow. 

Yet snatch what coals of fire on Pleasure's altar glow ! 

O thou that rearest with celestial aim 

The future Seraph in my mortal frame. 

Thrice holy Faith ! whatever thorns I meet 

As on I totter with unpractis'd feet. 

Still let me stretch my arms and cling to thee, 

Meek nurse of Souls through their long Infancy ! 



Sweet Flower ! that peeping from thy russet stem 
Unfoldest timidly, (for in strange sort 
This dark, frieze-coated, hoarse, teeth-chattering month 
Hath borrow' d Zephyr's voice, and gazed upon thee 
With blue voluptuous eye) alas, poor Flower ! 


]'i:r perpetuum 

These are but flatteries of the faithless year. 
Perchance, escaped its unknown j^olar cave, 
Even now the keen North-East is on its way. 
Flower that must perish ! shall I liken thee 
To some sweet girl of too too rapiil growth 
Nipp'd by Consumption mid untimely charms ? 
Or to Bristowa's bard,* the wondrous boy ! 
An amaranth, which earth scarce seem'd to own, 
Till Disa]i]iointmcnt came, and pelting wrong 
Beat it to earth ? or with indignant grief 
Shall I compare thee to poor Poland's hope, 
Bright flower of Hope kill'd in the opening bud ? 
Farewell, sweet Blossom ! better fate be thine 
And mock my boding ! Dim similitudes 
Weaving in moral strains, I've stolen one hour 
From anxious Self, Life's cruel task-master ! 
And the warni wooings of this sunny day 
Tremble along my frame, and harmonize 
The attem]ier'd organ, that even saddest thoughts 
Mix with some sweet sensations, like harsh tunes 
Played tleftly on a soft-toned instrument. 



" In my c;ilimr nioinonts I Ikivc the lirmcst faith that all 
things work to.;ethcr lor nooil. Unt, alas! it seems a Ion,:; and 
dark process." — [S. T. C] 

The early Year's fast-llying vajiours stray ' 

In shadowing trains across the orb of day, 
.\nd we, poor insects of a few short hours, 

Dtein it a worUl ol gloom. 
Were it not better hope, a nobler doom, 
Prouil to l)elieve that with more active powers, 

On rapitl many-colour'il wing, 

We thro' one bright perpetual Spring 
Shall hover round the fruits and flowers, 
Screcn'd by those clouds, and cluMish'd by those showers ? 

* Chatterton. 


Unearthly minstrelsy ! then only heard 

When the Soul seeks to hear ; when all is hush'd, 

And the Heart listens ! " 

But the time, when first 
From that low Dell, steep up the stony Mount 
I climb'd with perilous toil and reach'd the top, 
Oh ! what a goodly scene ! Here the Bleak Mount, 
\ The bare bleak Mountain speckled thin with sheep ; ^" 
N' Grey Clouds, that shadowing spot the sunny fields ; 
And River, now with bushy rocks o'erbrow'd, 
:, Now winding bright and full, with naked banks ; 
'.And Seats, and Lawns, the Abbey, and the Wood, 
iAnd Cots, and Hamlets, and faint City-spire : 
The Channel there, the Islands and white Sails, 
jDim Coasts, and cloud-like Hills, and shoreless Ocean — 
It seem'd like Omnipresence ! God, niethought. 
Had built him there a Temple : the whole World 
Seem'd imaged in its vast circumference : 
No wish profaned my overwhelmed Heart. ^^ 

Blest hour ! It was a Luxury, — to be ! 

— -^ —I 

Ah ! quiet Dell ! dear Cot, and Mount sublime ! 
I was constrain'd to quit you. Was it right. 
While my unnumber'd brethren toil'd and bled,/ 
That I should dream away the entrusted hours) 
On rose-leaf Beds, pampering the coward Heart 
With feelings all too delicate for use ? C 

Sweet is the tear that from some Howard's eye 
Drops on the cheek of One he lifts from Earth : 5° 

And He that works me good with unmov'd face, 
Does it but half : he chills me while he aids, 
My benefactor, not my Brother Man ! 
Yet even this, this cold Beneficence 
Praise, praise it, O my Soul ! oft as thou scann'st 
The Sluggard Pity's vision-weaving Tribe ! 
Who sigh for Wretchedness, yet shun the wretched. 
Nursing in some delicious solitude 
Their slothful loves and dainty Sympathies ! 
I therefore go, and join head, heart, and hand, ^° 

Active and firm, to fight the bloodless fight 
Of Science, Freedom, and the Truth in Christ. 



Yet oft when after honoural)lc toil 
Rests the tired mind, and waking loves to dream, 
My Spirit shall revisit thee, dear Cot ! 
Thy Jasmin and thy window- peeping Rose, 
And Myrtles fearless of the mild sea-air. 
And I shall sigh fond wishes — sweet Abode ! 
Ah ! — had none greater ! — And that all had such ! 
It might be so — but the time is not yet. 
Speed it, O Father ! Let thy Kingdom come ! 





Nitens et roboris expers 
Turget et insolida est : et spe delectat. 

Ovid, Metam., xv. 203. 

Thy smiles I note, sweet early flower, 
That peeping from thy rustic bower 
The festive news to earth dost bring, 
A fragrant messenger of Spring. 

But, tender blossom, why so pale ? 
Dost hear stern Winter in the gale ? 
And didst thou tempt the ungentle sky 
To catch one vernal glance and die ? 

Such the wan lustre sickness wears 
When Health's first feeble beam appears ; 
So languid are the smiles that seek 
To settle on the care-worn cheek, 

When timorous Hope the head uprears. 
Still drooping and still moist with tears, 
If, through dispersing grief, be seen 
Of bliss the heavenly spark serene. 

And sweeter far the early blow, 
Fast following after storms of woe. 
Than (Comfort's riper season come) 
Are full-blown joys and Pleasure's gaudy 








Rritons ! when last ye iiift. with distant streak 
So faintly proniisM the pale Dawn to break ; 
So tlini it stain'd the precincts of the sky 
E'en Expectation gaz'd with donbtful Eye. 
r)Ut now such fair \'aricties of Lii^ht 
O'ertake the heavy-sailing Clouds of Night ; 
Th' Horizon kindles with so rich a red, 
That, tho' the Suit still hides his glorious head, 
Th' impatient Matin-bird, assiir'd of Day, 
Leaves his low nest to meet its earliest ray ; 
Loud the sweet song of Gratulation sings, 
And high in air clajis his rejoicing wings ! 
Patriot and Sage ! whose breeze-like Spirit first 
The lazy mists of Pedantry dispers'd, 
(Mists in which Superstition's pi'^my band 
Seem'd (liant Forms, the Genii of the Laml I), 
Thy struggles soon shall wak'ning Britain bless, 
And Truth and Freedom hail thy wish'd success. 
Yes Tookc ! tho' foul Corrujit ion's wolfish throng 
Outmalice Calunuiy's imjiosthum'd Tongue, 
Thy Country's noblest and dctcrmin'd Choice, 
Soon shalt thou thrill the Senate with thy voice ; 
With gradual Dawn liid Error's phantoms flit, 
Or wither with the lightning's Hash of Wit ; 
Or with sublimer mien and tones more deep. 
Charm sworded Justice from luysterious Sleep, 
" By violated Freedom's louil Lament. 
Her Lamps e.xtinguish'd and her Temple rent ; 
By the forc'd tears her captive Martyrs shed ; 
By each pale Orphan's feeble cry for bread ; ^° 

By ravag'il i^elgiiun's corse-impedeil Flood, 
And Vendee stc.iming still with brothers' blood ! " 
And if amid the strong impassion'd Tale, 
Thy Tongue should falter antl th\' l.ips turn 
pale ; 





If transient Darkness film thy awefu Eye, 

And thy tir'd Bosom struggle with a sigh : 

Science and Freedom shall demand to hear 

Who practis'd on a Life so doubly dear ; 

Infus'd the unwholesome anguish drop by drop, 

Pois'ning the sacred stream they could not stop ! *° 

Shall bid thee with recover' d strength relate 

How dark and deadly is a Coward's Hate : 

What seeds of Death by wan Confinement sown, 

When Prison-echoes mock'd Disease's groan ! 

Shall bid th' indignant Father flash dismay, 

And drag the unnatural Villain into Day 

Who * to the sports of his flesh' d Ruffians left 

Two lovely Mourners of their Sire bereft ! 

'Twas wrong, like this, which Rome's first Consul 

So by th' insulted Female's name he swore ^^ 

Ruin (and rais'd her reeking dagger high) 
Not to the Tyrants — but the Tyranny ! ! 




Dear Charles ! whilst yet thou wert a babe, I ween 

That Genius plunged thee in that wizard fount 

Hight Castalie ; and (sureties of thy faith) 

That Pity and Simplicity stood by, 

And promis'd for thee, that thou shouldst renounce 

The World's low cares and lying vanities, 

* " Dundas left thief-takers in Home Tooke's House for 
three days, with his two Daugliters alone : for Home Tooke 
keeps no servant." — S. T. C. to Estlin, July 4, 1796. 


Steadfast and rooted in the heavenly Muse, 

And washed and sanctified to Poesy. 

Yes — thou wert pkinged, but with forgetful hand 

Held, as by Thetis, erst her warrior Son, 

And with those recreant unbaptized Heels 

Thou'rt flying from thy bounden Ministeries — 

So sore it seems and burthensome a task 

To weave unwithering flowers ! But take thou heed, — 

For thou art vulnerable, wild-ey'd Boy, 

And I have arrows mystically dipped, 

Such as may stop thy speed. Is thy Burns dead ? 

And shall he die unwept, and sink to Earth 

" Without the meed of one melodious tear ? " 

Tliv Burns, and Nature's own beloved Bard. 

Who to the " Illustrious * of his native Land 

So properly did look for Patronage." 

(jhost of Maecenas ! hide thy l)lushing face ! 

Thcv snatch'd him from the sickle and the plough — 

To gauge ale-lirkins. 

Oh ! for shame return ! 
On a bleak Rock, midway the Aonian mount. 
There stanils a lone and melancholy tree, 
Whose aged branches to the midniglit blast 
Make solemn music : j^luck its darkest bough. 
Ere yet the unwholosomc Niglit-dew bo exhaled. 
And, weeping, wreath it rountl thy Poet's Tomb. 
Then in the outskirts, where pollutions grow. 
Pick the rank henbane and tlio dusky flowers 
Of night-shade, or its red and tempting fruit ; 
These, with stopped nostril and glove-guarded hand. 
Knit in nice intertexture, so to twine 
The iUustrious brow of Scotch Nobility ! 

• Vorhalim from Bnms's Dodication of his Poems to tlie 
Nobility and Cuiitry of tlit- Calrdonian Hunt. 


[Charles Lloyd] 
on his proposing to domesticate with the 


A MOUNT, not wearisome and bare and steep, 

But a green mountain variously up-piled. 
Where o'er the jutting rocks soft mosses creep, 
Or colour' d lichens with slow oozing weep ; 

Where Cypress and the darker Yew start wild, 
And 'mid the summer torrent's gentle dash 
Dance brighten' d the red clusters of the Ash ; 
Beneath whose boughs, by those still sounds be- 



Calm Pensiveness might muse herself to sleep, 

Till haply startled by some fleecy dam, ^" 

That rustling on the bushy clift above, 

With melancholy bleat of anxious love, 

Made meek enquiry for her wandering lamb : 
Such a green mountain 'twere most sweet to climb, 

E'en while the bosom ach'd with loneliness — 

How more than sweet, if some dear friend should bless 
The adventurous toil, and up the path sublime 

Now lead, now follow : the glad landscape round. 

Wide and more wide, increasing without bound ! 

O then 'twere loveliest sympathy, to mark -" 

The berries of the half-uprooted Ash 
Dripping and bright ; and list the torrent's dash, — 

Beneath the Cypress, or tlie Yew more dark, 
Seated at ease, on some smooth mossy rock, 
In social silence now, and now to unlock 
The treasur'd heart, arm link'd in friendly arm, — 
Save if the one, his Muse's witching charm 
Muttering brow-bent, at unwatched distance lag ; 

Till higli o'er head his beckoning friend appears. 
And from the forehead of the topmost crag 

Shouts eagerly : for haj)ly there uprears ^' 

That shadowing pine its old romantic limbs. 

Which latest shall detain the enamour' d sight 
Seen from l)elow, when eve the valley dims. 

Tinged yellow with the rich departing light ; 

Anil hajily, bason'd in some unsunn'd cleft, 
A beauteous spring, the rock's collected tears. 
Sleeps shelter' d there, scarce wrinkled by the gale ! 

Together thus, the World's vain turuKMl left,. 
Stretcli't on the crag, and shadow'd by the pine, 

And l)ending o'lr the clear ilelicious fount, ** * 

Ah ! dearest Youth ! it were a lot divine 
To cheat our noons in moralising mood, 
While west-winds fann'd our temples toil-bedewed : 
^ Then downwards slojie, oft jiausing. from the mount. 
To some lone mansion, in .some woody dale. 
Where smiling with bine t'\(\ domestic Bliss 
Cii\-t's this the Husband's. ///(// tin- lirotluT's kiss ! 




Thus rudely vers'd in allegoric lore, 
The Hill of Knowledge I essayed to trace ; 
That verdurous hill with many a resting-place, 
And many a stream, whose warbling waters pour 

To glad, and fertilise the subject plains ; 
That hill with secret springs, and nooks untrod. 
And many a fancy-blest and holy sod 

Where Inspiration, his diviner strains 
Low murmuring, lay ; and starting from the rocks 
Stiff evergreens, whose spreading foliage mocks 
Want's barren soil, and the bleak frosts of Age, 
And Bigotry's mad fire-invoking rage ! 
O meek retiring spirit ! we will climb, 
Cheering and cheer' d, this lovely hill sublime ; 

And from the stirring world up-lifted high, 
Whose noises, faintly wafted on the wind. 
To quiet musings shall attune the mind. 

And oft the melancholy theme supply) 

There, while the prospect through the gazing eye 

Pours all its healthful greenness on the soul. 
We'll smile at wealth, and learn to smile at fame. 
Our hopes, our knowledge, and our joys the same. 

As neighbouring fountains image, each the whole : 
Then when the Mind hath drunk its fill of truth. 

We'll discipline the Heart to pure delight, 
Rekindling sober Joy's domestic flame. 
They whom I love shall love thee, honour'd Youth! 

Now may Heaven realise this vision bright ! 








When they did greet me father, sudden awe 

Weigh' d down my sj)irit : I retired and knelt 

Seeking the Throne of Grace, but inly felt 

No heavenly visitation upwards draw 

My feeble mind, nor cheering ray impart. 

Ah me ! before the Eternal Sire I brought 

Til' unquiet silence of confused thought 

Anil shajjcless feelings : my o'erwhelmod heart 

Trembled, and vacant tears stream' d down my face. 

And now once more, O Lord ! to thee I bend, 

Lover of souls ! and groan for future grace. 

That, ere my babe Youth's })erilous maze have trod, 

Thy overshadowing Spirit may descend, 

And he be born again, a child of God. 



composed on a journey homeward ; THE AUTHOR 



September 20, 1796. 

Oft o'er my brain docs that strange fancy roll 
Which makes the present (while the flash doth 

Seem a mere semblance of some unknown past, 
Mi.x'd with such feelings, as perplex the soul 



Self -question' d in her sleep : and some have said * 

We lived, ere yet this robe of Flesh we wore. 

O my sweet Baby ! when I reach my door, 
If heavy looks should tell me thou art dead, 
(As sometimes, through excess of hope, I fear) 
I think that I should struggle to believe 

Thou wert a spirit, to this nether sphere 
Sentenced for some more venial crime to grieve ; 
Didst scream, then spring to meet Heaven's quick 

While we wept idly o'er thy little bier ! 




Charles ! my slow heart was only sad, when first 

I scann'd that face of feeble infancy : 
For dimly on my thoughtful spirit burst 

All I had been, and all my child might be ! 
But when I saw it on its Mother's arm 

And hanging at her bosom (she the while 

Bent o'er its features with a tearful smile) 
Then I was thrill' d and melted, and most warm 
Impress'd a Father's kiss : and all beguil'd 

Of dark remembrance and presageful Fear, 

I seem'd to see an angel-form appear — ■ 
'Twas even thine, beloved woman mild ! 

So for the Mother's sake the Child was dear, 
And dearer was the Mother for the Child. 


'Hi/ TTov f]fjLO)v T] 'v/'i'X') "'P'^' f" TcGSe rw avdpu>Triva) ei8et. ytvecrdai. 

Plat, in Fhcedon. 
Cap. xviii. 72, e. 


Its balmy lips the Infant blest 
Relaxing from its Mother's breast, 
How sweet it heaves the happy sigh 
Of innocent Satiety ! 

And such my Infant's latest sigh ! 
O tell, rude stone ! the passer by, 
That here the pretty babe doth lie, 
Death sang to sleep with Lullaby. 




[C. Lloyd] 


Hence that fantastic wantonness of woe, 

O Youth to jiartial Fortune vainlv dear ! 
To phuuler'd Want's hall-shelter'd hovel go, 
Go, and some hunger-bitten Infant hear 
Moan haply in a (l\ing Mother's ear : 
Or wlu'U the cold and dismal fog-damps brood 
O'er the rank churchyard with sear elm-leaves strew'd, 
Pace round some widow's grave, whose dearer part 
Was slaughter'd, whore o'er his uncolhn'd limbs 
The flocking flesh-binls scream'd ! Then, while thy 
Groans, and thine eye a fiercer sorrow dims, 
Know (and the truth shall kindle thy young mind) 
What Nature makes thee mourn, she bids thee heal ! 

O abject ! if, to sickly dreams resigned. 
All effortless thou leave Life's connnon-weal 
A jney to tyrants — murderers of Mankind. 

1 796. 



The piteous sobs that choke the virgin's breath 
For him, the fair betrothed youth, who hes 
Cold in the narrow dwelhng, or the cries 

With which a mother wails her darling's death, 

These from our nature's common impulse spring, 
Unblam'd, unprais'd; but o'er the piled earth 
Which hides the sheeted corse of grey -hair'd worth 

If droops the soaring youth with slacken' d wing ; 

If he recall in saddest minstrelsy 

Each tenderness bestow' d, each truth impressed, 

Such grief is Reason, Virtue, Piety ! 

And from the Almighty Father shall descend 

Comforts on his late evening, whose young breast 

Mourns with no transient love the aged friend. 



[prince and princess of wales] 

I SIGH, fair injur' d stranger ! for thy fate ; 

But what shall sighs avail thee ? thy poor heart, 
'Mid all the " pomp and circumstance " of state, 

Shivers in nakedness. Unbidden, start 

Sad recollections of Hope's garish dream. 

That shaped a seraph form, and named it Love, — 

Its hues gay-varying, as the orient beam 
Varies the neck of Cytherea's dove. 



To one soft accent of domestic joy 

Poor are the shouts that shake the high-arch'd 
dome ; 
Those plaudits that thy public path annoy, 

Alas ! they tell thee — Thou'rt a wretch al home ! 

O then retire, and weep ! Their very woes 
Solace the guiltless. Drop the j^carly flood 

On thy sweet infant, as the full-blown rose, 

Surcharged with dew, bends o'er its neighbouring 

And ah ! that Truth some holy spell might lend 
To lure thy wanderer from the S\Ten's power ; 

Then bid your souls inseparably blend 

Like two bright dew-drops meeting in a flower. 

1 796. 



Auspicious Reverence ! Hush all meaner song, 
Ere we the deeji jneluding strain have pour'd 
To the (ireat Father, onl}- Rightful King, 
Eternal l«"ather ! King Omnipotent ! 
To the Will Absolute, the One, the Good! 
Tiie 1 AM, the Word, the Life, the Living God ! 

Such symjihony requires best instrument. 
Seize, then, my soul ! from l-'reedoiu's Irophied dome 
The Harj) which liangLth high between the shields 
Of Brutus and Lconidas ! With that '" 

Strong nuisic, that soHciting spell, force back 
Man's free and stirring sjnrit that lies entranc'd. 


For what is Freedom, but the unfetter' d use 
Of all the powers which God for use had given ? 
But chiefly this, him first, him last to view 
Through meaner powers and secondary things 
Effulgent, as through clouds that veil his blaze. 
For all that meets the bodily sense I deem 
Symbolical, one mighty alphabet 

For infant minds ; and we in this low world 20 

Placed with our backs to bright Reality, 
That we may learn with young unwounded ken 
The substance from its shadow. Infinite Love, 
Whose latence is the plenitude of All, 
Thou with retracted Beams, and self-eclipse 
Veiling, revealest thine eternal Sun. 

But some there are who deem themselves most free 
When they within this gross and visible sphere 
Chain down the winged thought, scoffing ascent 
Proud in their meanness : and themselves they cheat ^° 
With noisy emptiness of learned phrase, 
Their subtle fluids, impacts, essences. 
Self-working tools, uncaused effects, and all 
Those blind Omniscients, those Almighty Slaves, 
Untenanting creation of its God. 

But properties are God : the naked mass 
(If mass there be, fantastic guess or ghost) 
Acts only by its inactivity. 
Here we pause humbly. Others boldlier think 
That as one body seems the aggregate *° 

Of Atoms numberless, each organiz'd ; 
So, by a strange and dim similitude. 
Infinite myriads of self-conscious minds 
Are one all-conscious Spirit, which informs 
With absolute ubiquity of thought 
(His one, eternal, self-affirming Act !) 
All his involved Monads, that yet seem 
With various province and apt agency 
Each to pursue its own self-centering end. 
Some nurse the infant diamond in the mine ; ^° 

Some roll the genial juices through the oak ; 


Some drive the mutinous clouds to clash in air, 
And rushing on the storm with whirlwind speed, 
Yoke the red lightnings to their volleying car. 
Thus these pursue their never-varying course, 
No eddy in their stream. Others, more wild, 
With complex interests weaving human fates, 
Duteous or proud, alike obedient all. 
Evolve the process of eternal good. 

And what if some rebellious, o'er dark realms "" 

Arrogate power ? yet these train up to God, 
And on the rude eye, unconfirmed for day. 
Flash meteor-lights better than total gloom. 
As ere from Lieule-Oaive's vapoury head 
The Laplander beholds the far-off Sun 
Dart his slant beam on unobeying snows, 
While yet the stern and solitary Night 
Brooks no alternate sway, the Boreal Morn 
With mimic lustre substitutes its gleam. 
Guiding his course or by Niemi lake "° 

Or Balda-Zhiok, * or the mossy stone 
Of Solfar-kapper,f while the snowy blast 
Drifts arrowy by, or eddies round his sledge, 
Making the poor babe at its mother's back J 

* Balda Zhiok : i.e., mons altitudinis, the highest mountain 
in I.apland. 

\ Solfar Kappcr ; capitium Solfar, hie locus omnium, quot- 
quot vctcrum Lapponum superstitio sacrificiis nligiosoquc 
cultui tiedicavit, celebratissimus crat. in parte sinus austraUs 
situs, semi-milliario spatio a mari distans. Ipse locus, quom 
curiositatis gratia ali<iuanclo mo invisissc memini, tluabus prealtis 
lapidibus, sibi invicem opjiositis, qiiorum alter musco tircum- 
datus erat, constabaf. — Lkemhs Dc I.ahponihus. 

X Tlic Lapland women carry their infants at their back in a 
piece of excavated wood, which serves them for a cradle. Oppo- 
site to the infant's mouth, there is a hole for it to breathe through. 
— Mirandum ]>rorsus est et vi.x credible nisi cui vidisse contigif, 
Lappones hycme iter facientes per vastos montes, penpie horrida 
et invia ti-scjua, eo prosertim tempore quo omnia perpetuis 
nivibus obtecta sunt et nives vent is agitanfur et in gyros aguntur, 
viain ad destinata loca absque errorc invenirc posse : lactantem 
nutem infantem, si quem lialn-at, ipsa mater m dorso bajulat. 
in excavato ligno (Gii-ed'k ipsi vocant) q\iod pro cunis utuntur : 
in hoc infans jiannis et pilhbus convohitus coUigatus jacet. — 
Lkemu's Ih- Laf^ffotiilius, 




Scream in its scanty cradle : he the while 

Wins gentle solace as with upward eye 

He marks the streamy banners of the North, 

Thinking himself those happy spirits shall join 

Who there in floating robes of rosy light ^° 

Dance sportively. For Fancy is the Power 

That first unsensualises the dark mind, 

Giving it new delights ; and bids it swell 

With wild activity ; and peopling air. 

By obscure fears of Beings invisible, 

Emancipates it from the grosser thrall 

Of the present impulse, teaching Self-control, 

Till Superstition with unconscious hand 

Seat Reason on her throne. Wherefore not vain, 

Nor yet without permitted power impress' d, 

I deem those legends terrible, with which 

The Polar Ancient thrills his uncouth throng : 

Whether of pitying Spirits that make their moan 

O'er slaughter' d infants, or that Giant Bird 

Vuokho, of whose rushing wings the noise 

Is Tempest, when the unutterable * shape 

Speeds from the mother of Death, and utters once 

That shriek, which never Murderer heard and lived. 

Or if the Greenland Wizard in strange trance 

Pierces the untravell'd realms of Ocean's bed 

Over the abysm, even to that uttermost cave ^°° 

By mis-shaped prodigies beleaguer' d, such 

As Earth ne'er bred, nor Air, nor the upper Sea, 

Where dwells the Fury Form, whose unheard name 

With eager eye, pale cheek, suspended breath, 

And lips half-opening with the dread of sound, 

Unsleeping Silence guards, worn out with fear 

Lest haply 'scaping on some treacherous blast 

The fateful word let slip the Elements 

And frenzy Nature. Yet the wizard her, 

Arm'd with Torngarsuck's f power, the Spirit of Good, ^^^ 

* Jaibme Aibmo. 

f They call the Good Spirit Torngarsuck. The other great 
but malignant spirit is a nameless Female : she dwells under the 
sea in a great house, where she can detain in captivity all the 


Forces to unchain the foodful progeny 

()t the Ocean stream ;— thence thro' the realm of Souls 

Where live the Innocent, as far from cares 

As from the storms and overwhelming waves 

Tliat tumble on the surface of the Deep, 

Returns with far-heard pant, hotl}' pursued 

By the fierce Warders of the Sea, once more, 

Ere by the frost foreclosed, to repossess 

His fleslily mansion, that has staid the while 

In the dark tent within a cow'ring group '-" 

Untenanted. Wild phantasies ! yet wise. 

On the victorious goodness of high God 

Teaching Reliance, and medicinal Hope, 

Till from Bethabra northward, heavenly Truth 

With gradual steps winning her difficult way. 

Transfer their rude Faitli perfected and pure. 

If there be Beings of higher class than Man, 
I deem no nobler province they possess, 
Tlian by disposal of apt circumstance 
To rear up Kingdoms : and the deeds they prompt, '•'"' 
Distinguishing from mortal agency. 
They choose their human ministers from such states 
As still the Ej)ic Song half fears to name, 
Rcpell'd from all the Minstrelsies that strike 
The palace-roof and soothe the Monarch's pride. 

And such, perhaps, the Sj)irit, who (if words 
Witness'd by answering deeds may claim our Faith) 
HcM commune with that warrior-maid of France 
Who scourg'd the Invader. From licr infant davs, 
With Wisdom, Mother of retired Tlioughts, ' >" 

Her soul had dwelt ; and she was quick to mark 
The good anil evil thing -in human lore 
Undisciplined. For lowly was her birth, 

animals of the ocean by her niriRic power. When a dearth 
t>efalls the Greenlanders, an .\n>;ekok t)r niaj-ician ninst under- 
take a journey thilher. He passes tlirou^li tlie kinf^dom of 
souls, over an horrible abyss into tlic Palace of tiiis jihantom, 
and by his eucliantnients causes the captive creatures to ascend 
dinctly to the surface of the ocean. 

See Crantz's ///.■>/. o/ Grcciitand, vol. i. p. 206. 





And Heaven had doom'd her early years to Toil, 
That pure from Tyranny's least deed, herself 
Unfear'd by feUow-natures, she might wait 
On the poor labouring man with kindly looks, 
And minister refreshment to the tired 
Way-wanderer, when along the rough-hewn bench 
The sweltry man had stretched him, and aloft ^^° 

Vacantly watch' d the rudely-pictur'd board 
Which on the^mulberry-bough with welcome creak 
Swung to the pleasant breeze. Here, too, the Maid 
Learnt more than Schools could teach : Man's shifting 

His Vices and his Sorrows ! And full oft 
At Tales of cruel Wrong and strange Distress 
Had wept and shiver' d. To the tottering Eld 
StiU as a daughter would she run : she placed 
His cold limbs at the sunny door, and lov'd 
To hear him story, in his garrulous sort, ^®" 

Of his eventful years, all come and gone. 

So twenty seasons past. The Virgin's form. 
Active and tall, nor Sloth nor Luxury 
Had shrunk or paled. Her front sublime and broad. 
Her flexile eye-brows wildly-hair'd and low. 
And her full eye, now bright, now unillum'd. 
Spake more than Woman's thought ; and all her face 
Was moulded to such features as declared 
That Pity there had oft and strongly work'd, 
And sometimes Indignation. Bold her mien, ^'" 

And like an haughty huntress of the woods 
She moved : yet sure she was a gentle maid ! 
And in each motion her most innocent soul 
Beam'd forth so brightly, that who saw would say 
Guilt was a thing impossible in her ! 
Nor idly would have said — for she had lived 
In this bad World, as in a place of Tombs, 
And touched not the pollutions of the Dead. 

'Twas the cold season when the rustic's eye 
From the drear desolate whiteness of his fields i*" 

Rolls for relief to watch the skiev tints 



And clouds slow-varying tla-ir huge imagery ; 

When now, as she was wont, the healthful Maid 

Had left her pallet ere one beam of day 

Slanted the fog-smoke. She went forth alone 

Urg'd by the indwelling angel-guide, that oft 

Witli rlim inexplicable sympathies 

Disquieting the Heart, shapes out Man's course 

To the predoom'd adventure. Now the ascent 

She climbs of that stee]) upland, on whose top 

The Pilgrim-man, who long since eve had watch'd 

The alien shine of unconcerning stars, 

Shouts to himself, there first the Abbey-lights 

Seen in Neufchatel's vale ; now slopes adown 

The winding sheep-track vale ward : when, behold 

In the first entrance of the level road 

An unattended Team ! The foremost horse 

Lay with stretched limbs ; the others, yet alive 

But stiff and cold, stood motionless, their manes 

Hoar with the frozen night-dews. Dismally 

The dark-red dawn now glimmer' d ; but its gleams 

Disclos'd no face of man. The Maiden paus'd, 

Then hail'd who might be near. No voice replied. 

From the thwart wain at length there reached her ear 

A sound so feeble that it almost seem'd 

Distant : and feebly, with slow effort jnish'd, 

A miserable man crept forth : his limbs 

The silent frost had eat, scathing like lire. 

Faint on the shafts he rested. She, mean time, 

Saw crowded close beneath the coverture 

A mother ami her children — lifeless all. 

"S'lt lovely ! not a lineament was marr'd — 

Death had put on so slumber-like a form ! 

If was a i^iteous sight ; and one, a babe, 

The crisp milk frozen on its innocent lij)s, 

Lay on the woman's arm, its little hand 

Stretched on her bosom. 




Mutely questioning, 
The Maid gazed wildly at the living wretch. 
He, his head feebly turning, on the group 
l.onk'il willi a \;u:anl stare, and his «'ve spoke 



The drowsy calm that steals on worn-out anguish. 
She shudder' d : but, each vainer pang subdued, 
Quick disentangling from the foremost horse 
The rustic bands, with difficulty and toil 
The stiff cramp' d team forc'd homeward. There 

Anxiously tends him she with healing herbs, 
And weeps and prays — but the numb power of Death 
Spreads o'er his limbs ; and 'ere the noon-tide hour. 
The hovering spirits of his Wife and Babes 
Hail him immortal ! Yet amid his pangs, 2^° 

With interruptions long from ghastly throes, 
His voice had falter' d out this simple tale. 

The Village, where he dwelt an husbandman. 
By sudden inroad had been seiz'd and fired 
Late on the yester-evening. With his wife 
And little ones he hurried his escape. 
They saw the neighbouring hamlets flame, they heard 
Uproar and shrieks ! and terror-struck drove on 
Through unfrequented roads, a weary way ! 
But saw nor house nor cottage. All had quench' d ^^^ 
Their evening hearth-fire : for the alarm had spread. 
The air clipp'd keen, the night was fang'd with frost, 
And they provisionless ! The weeping wife 
111 hush'd her children's moans ; and still they moan'd, 
Till Fright and Cold and Hunger drank their Hfe. 
They clos'd their eyes in sleep, nor knew 'twas Death. 
He only, lashing his o'er- wearied team. 
Gained a sad respite, till beside the base 
Of the high hill his foremost horse dropped dead. 
Then hopeless, strengthless, sick for lack of food, ^^^ 
He crept beneath the coverture, entranc'd. 
Till waken'd by the Maiden. — Such his tale. 

Ah ! suffering to the height of what was suffer' d. 
Stung with too keen a sympathy, the Maid 
Brooded with moving lips, mute, startful, dark ! 
And now her flush' d tumultuous feature? shot 
Such strange vivacity, as fires the eye 
Of Misery fancy-crazed ! and now once more 


Naked, and void, and fix'd, and all within 

The unquiet silence of confused thought -*° 

And shapeless feelings. For a mighty hand 

Was strong upon her, till in the heat of soul 

To the high hill-top tracing back her steps, 

Aside the beacon, up whose smoulder' d stones 

The tender ivy-trails crept thinly, there, 

Unconscious of the driving element. 

Yea, swallow'd up in the ominous dream, she sate 

Ghastly as broad-eyed Slumber ! a dim anguish 

Breath'd from her look ! and still with pant and sob. 

Inly she toil'd to flee, and still subdued. 270 

Felt an inevitable Presence near. 

Thus as she toil'd in troublous ecstasy, 
A horror of great darkness wrapped her round. 
And a voice utter' d forth unearthly tones, 
Calming her soul, — " O Thou of the Most High 
Chosen, whom all the perfected in Heaven 
Behold expectant 

[The following fragments were intended to fomi part of the 
Poem when finished.] 

" Maid belov'd of Heaven ! 
(To her the tutelary Power exclaim' d) » 

Of Chaos the adventurous progeny 

Thou seest ; foul missionaries of foul sire, -*•' 

Fierce to regain the losses of that hour 
When Love rose glittering, and his gorgeous wing 
Over the abyss flutter'd with such glad noise. 
As what time after long and pestful calms, 
With slimy shapes and miscreated life 
I'ojsoning the vast Pacific, the fresli lireeze 
Wakens the merchant-sail uprising. Night 
A heavy unimaginable moan 
Sent forth, when she the Protoplast beheld 
Stand beauteous on Confusion's charmed wave. 
Moaning she fled, and enter'd the Profound 
That leads with ilownward windings to the Cave 
Of darkness palpable. Desert of Death 
Sunk deep beiuath (irhemia's massy roots. 


There many a dateless age the beldame lurk'd 
And trembled ; till engender' d by fierce Hate, 
Fierce Hate and gloomy Hope, a Dream arose, 
Shaped like a black cloud mark'd with streaks of 

It rous'd the Hell-Hag : she the dew-damp wiped 
From off her brow, and through the uncouth maze ^°" 
Retrac'd her steps ; but ere she reach'd the mouth 
Of that drear labyrinth, shuddering she paus'd, 
Nor dared re-enter the diminish'd Gulph. 
As through the dark vaults of some moulder' d tower, 
(Which, fearful to approach, the evening hind, 
Circles at distance in his homeward way) 
The winds breathe hollow, deem'd the plaining groan 
Of prison' d spirits ; with such fearful voice 
Night murmur'd, and the sound through Chaos went. 
Leap'd at her call her hideous-fronted brood ! ^^^ 

A dark behest they heard, and rush'd on earth ; 
Since that sad hour, in Camps and Courts adored, 
Rebels from God, and Tyrants o'er Mankind ! " 

From his obscure haunt 
Shriek'd Fear, of Cruelty the ghastly Dam, 
Feverish yet freezing, eager-paced yet slow, 
As she that creeps from forth her swampy reeds, 
Ague, the biform Hag ! when early Spring 
Beams on the marsh-bred vapours. 

" Even so " (the exulting Maiden said) ^^^ 
"The sainted Heralds of Good Tidings fell, 
And thus they witness' d God ! But now the 

Treading, and storms beneath their feet, they soar 
Higher, and higher soar, and soaring sing 
Loud songs of Triumph ! O ye spirits of God, 
Hover around my mortal agonies ! " 
She spake, and instantly faint melody 
Melts on her ear, soothing and sad, and slow, 
Such measures, as at calmest midnight heard 
By aged Hermit in his holy dream, ^^" 

Foretell and solace death ; and now they rise 
Louder, as when with harp and mingled voice 


The wliitc-robtd * nniltitudc of slaughter'd Saints 
At Heaven's wide-open'd portals gratulant 
Receive some niartyr'd Patriot. The harmony 
Entranc'd the Maid, till each suspended sense 
Brief slumber seiz'd. and confus'd ecstasy. 

At length awakening slow, she gazed around : 
And through a mist, the rcli(iue of that trance, 
Still thinning as she gazed, an Isle appear'd, ^*^ 

Its high, o'er-hanging, white, broad-breasted cliffs 
Glass'd on the subject ocean. A vast plain 
Stretched opptisite, wiiere ever and anon 
The Plough-man following sad his meagre team 
Turn'd up fresh sculls, unstartled, and the bones 
Of fierce hate-breathing combatants, who there 
All mingled lay beneath the common earth. 
Death's gloomy reconcilement I O'er the fields 
Stepped a fair Form, repairing all she might ^^^ 

Her temples olive-wreath' d ; and where she trod, 
Fresh flowerets rose, and many a foodful herb. 
But wan her cheek, her footsteps insecure, 
And anxious Pleasure beam'd in her faint eye, 
As she had newly left a couch of pain. 
Pale Convalescent ! (Yet some time to rule 
With jiower exclusive o'er the willing world. 
That blessed prophetic mandate then fulhll'd — 
Peace be on Earth !) An hajipy while, but brief, 
She seem'd to wander with assiduous feet, '•" 

And heal'd the recent harm of chill and blight, 
And nurs'd each plant that fair antl virtuous grew. 

But soon a deep jirecursive sound moan'd hollow : 
Black rose the clouds, and now, (as in a tlream) 
Their redtlening shapes, transformed to Warrior-hosts, 
Cours'd o'er the Sky, and battled in mid-air. 

* Revclatiaus, vi, 0. ii. .\nd wIumi he had opened the lifth 
seal, I saw under the altar the scids of them that were slain for 
the word of Cod, and for the testimony which tliey held. And 
white rol>is were j;iven unto every one of them ; and it was said 
unto them, that tliey should rest yet for a little season, until 
their fellowsorvants also and tiuir brethren, that should be 
killed as they were, should In- fnliilled. 


Nor did not the large blood-drops fall from Heaven 

Portentous ! while aloft were seen to float, 

Like hideous features looming on the mist, 

Wan stains of ominous Light ! Resign' d, yet sad, ^'° 

The fair Form bow'd her olive-crownM Brow, 

Then o'er the plain with oft reverted eye 

Fled till a Place of Tombs she reach' d, and there 

Within a ruin'd Sepulchre obscure 

Found hiding-place. 

The delegated Maid 
Gazed through her tears, then in sad tones exclaim' d, — 
" Thou mild-eyed Form ! wherefore, ah ! wherefore 

fled ? 
The power of Justice, like a name all light. 
Shone from thy brow ; but all they, who unblamed 
Dwelt in thy dwellings, call thee Happiness. ^^" 

Ah ! why, uninjured and unprofited. 
Should multitudes against their brethren rush ? 
Why sow they guilt, still reaping Misery ? 
Lenient of care, thy songs, O Peace ! are sweet, 
As after showers the perfumed gale of eve, 
That flings the cool drops on a feverous cheek : 
And gay thy grassy altar piled with fruits. 
But boasts the shrine of D?emon War one charm 
Save that with many an orgie strange and foul, ^^^ 

Dancing around with interwoven arms, 
The Maniac Suicide and Giant Murder 
Exult in their fierce union ? I am sad. 
And know not why the simple Peasants crowd 
Beneath the Chieftains' standard ! " Thus the Maid. 

To her the tutelary Spirit said : 
" When Luxury and Lust's exhausted stores 
No more can rouse the appetites of Kings ; 
When the low flattery of their reptile Lords 
Falls flat and heavy on the accustom' d ear ; 
When Eunuchs sing, and Fools buffoonery make, '*"" 
And Dancers writhe their harlot-limbs in vain ; 
Then War and all its dread vicissitudes 
Pleasingly agitate their stagnant hearts ; 



Its hopes, its fears, its victories, its defeats, 

Insipid Royalty's keen condiment ! 

Therefore, uninjured and unprofrted, 

(Victims at once and Executioners) 

Tlie congregated husbandmen lay waste 

The vineyard and the harvest. As alonj; 

The Bothnic coast, or southward of the Line, ■••" 

Though hush'd the winds and cloudless the high 

Yet if Leviathan, weary of ease, 
In sports unwieldy toss his island-bulk. 
Ocean behind him billows, and, before, 
A storm of waves breaks foamy on the strand. 
And hence, for times and seasons bloody and dark. 
Short Peace shall skin the wounds of causeless War, 
And War, his strained sinews knit anew. 
Still violate the unfinished works of Peace. 
But yonder look ! for more demands thy view ! " •*2" 
He said : and straightway from the opposite Isle 
A Vapour sail'd, as when a cloud, exhaled 
From Egypt's fields that steam hot pestilence, 
Travels the sky for many a trackless league, 
'Till o'er some dcath-doom'd land, distant in vain, 
It broods incumbent. Forthwith from the Plain, 
Facing the Isle, a brighter cloud arose. 
And stccr'd its course which way the Vapour went. 

The Maiden paus'd, musing what this might mean. 
Hut long time pass'il not, ere tliat lirighter Cloud ^'" 
Kcturn'd more bright ; along the Plain it swept ; 
And soon from forth its bursting sides emerged 
A dazzling form, broad-bosom' d, bold of eye. 
And wild licr hair, save where with laurels bound. 
Not more majestic stood the heaUng (iod. 
When from his bow the arrow sped that slew 
Huge Pvthon. Shrick'd Ambition's giant throng. 
And witli them hissVl tlie locust-fiends that crawl'd 
And glitter'd in Corruption's slimy track. 
Great was their wrath, for short they knew their 

reign ; ••" 

And such commotion made tliey, and uproar. 


As when the mad Tornado bellows through 

The guilty islands of the western main, 

What time departing from their native shores, 

Eboe, or * Koromantyn's plain of Palms, 

The infuriate spirits of the Murder' d make 

Fierce merriment, and vengeance ask of Heaven. 

Warm'd with new influence, the unwholesome Plain 

Sent up its foulest fogs to meet the Morn : 

The Sun that rose on Freedom, rose in Blood ! *^° 

* The Slaves in the West Indies consider deatli as a passport 
to their native country. This sentiment is thus expressed in 
the introduction to a Greek Prize Ode on the Slave Trade, of 
which the ideas are better than the language in which they are 

'i2 (TKOTOV TTvXas, Qdvare, TrpnXelTrcou 
'Es yivos (TTrevdois vTro^ev^Bev "Ara' 
Ov ^eviadrjaj] yevvav airapayfiois 

OuS' uXoKvyjJLO), 

'AXXa Kcii kvkKolcti )(^opoiTv7rotai 

'AXX' ofias ^EXfvdepia (Tvvonce'LS 

'Ervyvi Tv/jai'i'e ! 

AaaKLOis eivt Trrepvyeacn crfjcrt 
'A I 6cikd(T(jU)V Kadopai'res 6iS/j,a 
AWepoTrXuyKTOis vttu Trofrtr' dviicri, 

IlarpiS' eV alau. 

"KvOa fxav "Epaarat 'Epoifievijaiv 
Ap,(f)l Trrjyrjatv Ktrpivav vtt dXacJov, 
Ocrcr' VTTO ^poTois eTvadov fipoTol, ra 

Aeivd XiyovTi. 


Literal Translation. 

Leaving the Gates of Darkness, O Death ! hasten thou to a 
Race yoked with INIisery ! Thou wilt not be received with lacera- 
tions of cheeks, nor with funereal ululation — but with circling 
dances and the joy of songs. Thou art terrible indeed, yet thou 
dwellest with Liberty, stern Genius ! Borne on thy dark pinions 
over the swelling of Ocean, they return to their native country. 
There, by the side of Fountains beneath Citron-groves, the 
lovers tell to their beloved what horrors, being Men, they had 
endured from Men. 





" Maiden beloved, and Delegate of Heaven ! 
(To her tiie tutelary Spirit said) 
Soon shall the Morning struggle into Day, 
Th« stormy Morning into cloudless Noon. 
Much hast thou seen, nor all canst understand — 
Hut this be tliy best Omen — Save thy Country ! " 
Thus saying, from the answering Maid he passed, 
And with him disappear'd the Heavenly Vision. 

" Glory to thee. Father of Earth and Heaven ! 
All conscious Presence of the Universe ! 
Nature's vast Ever-acting Energy ! 
In Will, in Deed, impulse of All to All ! 
Whether thy Love with unrefracted Ray 
Beam on the Propliet's purged eye, or if 
Diseasing Realms the Enthusiast, wild of thought. 
Scatter new frenzies on the infected throng, 
Thou both inspiring and predooming both — 
Fit Instruments and best, of perfect end : 
Glory to Thee, Father of Earth and Heaven ! " 

And first a Landscape rose 
More wild and waste and desolate than where 
The white bear, tlrifting on a field of ice. 
Howls to her sunder' d cubs with piteous rage 
And savage agony. 




lOD, lOV, CO CO KaKil. 

'Ytt' ail fMe ^eii'iis opdo^avTelcn ttovos 
^Tpof-iel, Tiifu'iacTcoi' (ppntfitois fCJirjfiiot?. 
* * * * 

To jLteXXov I'j^ei. Kai av fj.ev Tci^ei nnpoyi' 
Ayni' uXr)d(')fj.avTii> oiKveipas epels. 

1 199-1200. 


The Ode commences with an Address to the Divine Providence, 
that regulates into one vast harmony all the events of time, 
however calamitous some of them may appear to mortals. The 
second Strophe calls on men to suspend their private joys and 
sorrows, and devote them for a while to the cause of human 
nature in general. The first Epode speaks of the Empress of 
Russia, who died of an apoplexy on November 17, 1796 ; having 
just concluded a subsidiary treaty with the Kings combined 
against France. The first and second Antistrophe describe the 
Image of the Departing Year, &c., as in a vision. The second 
Epode prophesies, in anguish of spirit, the downfall of this coun- 
try. , 


Spirit who sweepest the wild Harp of Time \Y' 

It is most hard, with an untroubled ear \iii^' 1 

Thy dark inwoven harmonies to hear ! ^ \ 

Yet, mine eye fixed on Heaven's unchanging clime, 
Long had I listened, free from mortal fear. 

With inward stillness, and submitted mind ; 

When lo ! its folds far waving on the wind, 
I saw the train of the Departing Year ! 

Starting from my silent sadness 

Then with no unholy madness }^ 

Ere yet the entered cloud foreclosed my sight, \ 

I raised the impetuous song, and solemnised his 


Hither, from the recent Tomb, 
From the Prison's direr gloom, 

* This Ode was composed on December 24, 25, and 26, 1796 ; 
and was first published on the last day of that year. 




Erom Distemper's midniglit anguish ; 
And thence, where Poverty dotli waste and languish ; 
Or where, liis two bright torches blending. 

Love illumines Manhood's maze ; 
Or where o'er cradled infants bending 

Hope has fixed her wishful gaze ; — 20 

Hither, in perplexed dance, 
Ye Woes ! ye young-eyed Joys ! advance ! 
By Time's wild harp, and by the hand 
Whose indefatigable sweep 
Koiacfi its fateful strings from sleep, 
I \)\d you haste, a mixed tumultuous band ! 
■*" From every j^rivate bower. 
And each domestic hearth, 
Haste for one solemn hour ; 
And with a loud and yet a louder voice, ^" 

O'er Natiue struggling in portentous birth, ' 

Weep and rejoice ! 
Still echoes the dread Name that o'er the earth 
Let slip the storm, and woke the brood of Hell ; 

And now advance in saintly Jubilee 
Justice and Trulli ! They too have heard thy spell. 
They too oliey thy name, divinest Liberty ! 

N^. Ill 

I nKukcdjVrnbitiaij in his war-arra> - ! 
^ \ I heard the mailed Monarch's troublous cry — 

" Ah ! wherefore does the Northern Conqucrcss 

stay ? *» 

Groans not her chariot on its onward way ? " 
Fly mailed Monarch, fly ! 
Stunned by Death's twice mortal mace, 
No more on Murder's lurid face 
The insatiate Hag shall gloat with drunken eye ! ''f 
Manes of the unnumbered slain ! 
Ye that gas]-)ed on Warsaw's plain ! 
Ye that erst at Ismail's tower, 
When human ruin choked th(i\streams, 

Fell in Conquest's glutted lu>in\ '• 

Mid women's shrieks and infants' screams ! 


Spirits of the uncoffined slain, 

Sudden blasts of triumph swelling, 
Oft, at night, in misty train, 

Rush around her narrow dwelling ! 
The exterminating Fiend is fled — 

(Foul her life, and dark her doom) 
Mighty armies of the dead 
""^ 'Dance like death-fires round her tomb ! 
Then with prophetic song relate, ^^ 

Each some tyrant-murderer's fate ! 


Departing Year ! 'twas on no earthly shore 

My soul beheld thy vision ! Where alone. 
Voiceless and stern, before the cloudy throne, 
Aye Memory sits : thy robe inscribed with gore, 
With many an unimaginable groan 
Thou storied' st thy sad hours ! Silence ensued, 
Deep silence o'er the ethereal multitude. 
Whose locks with wreaths, whose wreaths with glories 
Then, his eye wild ardours glancing, "* 

From the choired Gods advancing, 
The_Spirit of the Earth made reverence meet. 
And stood up, beautiful, before the cloudy seat. 

Throughout the blissful throng. 
Hushed were harp and song : 
Till wheeling round the throne the Lampads seven, 
(The mystic Words of Heaven) ' " 

Permissive signal make : 
Tlie_iervent Spirit bowed^ then spread his wings and 
spake ! 
" Thou in stormy blackness throning s° 

Love and uncreated Light, 
By the Earth's unsolaced groaning, 
Seize thy terrors. Arm of might ! 



By Peace, with proffered insult scared, 
Masked Hate and envying Scorn ! 
By Years of Havoc yet unborn ! 
And Hunger's bosom to the frost-winds bared ! 
Rutchief by Afric's wrongs, 

Strange, horrible, and foul ! 
By what deep guilt belongs 
To the deaf S\n()d, ' full of gifts and'lies ! ' 
By Wealth's insensate laugh ! I)y Torture's howl I 

Avenger, rise ! 
For ever shall tlu' thankless Island scowl,— '/-^ 
Her quiver full, and with unbroken" bow ? 
Speak ! from thy storm-black Heaven () speak aloud I 

And on the darkling foe 
Open thine eye of tire from some uncertain cloud ! 

O darl Iho Hash ! O rise and deal the l)low ! 
The Past to thee, to thee the Future cries ! '"" 

Hark ! how wide Nat ure joins her groans below ! 
Rise, (lod of NaluirT rise." 


The voice had ceased, the vision fled ; 
Yet still I gasjK'd and reeled with dread. 
And ever, when the dream of night 
Renews the j>hantom to my sight. 
C old sw eat-drops gather on my limbs ; 

"My~cai"s throb hot. my eye^nills start ; 
Mv brain with lion id tunndt swims; 

AViJd b the t( I 111 M >( t^f "■'Jdir^rt— "" 

And mv thick and struggling breath 
Imitates the toil of Death ! 
No stranger agony confounds 

The Soldier on the war-held spread, 
When all foredone with toil and wounds. 

Death-like he dozes among heaps of Dead ! 
(The strife is o'er, the daylight fled. 

And the night-wind clamours hoarse ! 
Sec ! the starting wi'etch's Iicad 

Lies |)illowed on a luother's corse !) '-" 




Not yet enslaved, not wholly vile, 
O Albion ! O my mother Isle ! 
Thy vallies, fair as Eden's bowers, 
Glitter green with sunny showers ; \ 
Thy grassy uplands' gentle swells I 

Echo to the bleat of flocks ; \ 

(Those grassy hills, those glittering dells 

Proudly ramparted with rocks) 
And Ocean mid his uproar wild 
Speaks safety to his island-child ! ^^° 

Hence for many a fearless age 

Has social Quiet loved thy shore ; 
NoTever proud Invader's rage 
Or sacked thy towers, or stained thy fields with 


Abandoned of Heaven ! mad Avarice thy guide, 
At cowardly distance, yet kindling with pride — 
Mid thy herds and thy corn-fields secure thou hast 

And joined the wild yelling of Famine and Blood ! 
The nations curse thee ! They with eager wondering 

vShall hear Destruction, like a vulture, scream ! ^^^ 

Sti:;ange-eyed Destruction ! who with many a 
Of central fires through nether seas upthundering 

S oothe s her fierce solitude ; yet as she lies 
By livid fount, or red volcanic stream. 

If ever to her lidless dragon-eyes, 

O Albion ! thy predestined ruins rise. 
The fiend-hag on her perilous couch doth leap, 
Muttering distempered triumph in h er charmed s leep. 


Away, my soul, away ! 
In vain, in vain the Birds of Warning sing— 1^° 
And hark ! I hear the famished brood of preyl 
Flap their lank pennons on the groaning wind M 

Away, my soul, away ! "^ 



I unpartaking of the evil tiling, 

With daily prayer and daily toil 
Soliciting for food my scanty soil, 
Have wailed my country with a loud Lament. 
Now I rccentre my immortal mind 

In the deep sabbath of meek self-content ; 
Cleansed from the vaporous passions that bedim 
God's Image, sister of the Seraphim. 





Myrtle-leaf that, ill besped, 

Finest in the gladsome ray. 
Soiled beneath the common tread, 

Far from thy protecting spray ! 

When the Partridge o'er the sheaf 
Whirred along the yellow vale, 

Sad I saw thee, heedless leaf ! 
Love the dalliance of tiie galc> 

Lij;htly didst thou, foolish tiling ! 

Heave and flutter to his siglis. 
While the llatterer, on his wing, 

Wooed and whispered thee to rise. 

Gaily from thy mother-stalk 

Wert thou danced and wafted high- 
Soon on this unsheltered w;Uk 

Flung to faile, to rot and die. 



Maiden, that with sullen brow 
Sittest behind those virgins gay, 

Like a scorched and mildewed bough. 
Leafless 'mid the blooms of May ! 


Him who lured thee and forsook, 
Oft I watched with angry gaze. 

Fearful saw his pleading look, 
Anxious heard his fervid phrase. 


Soft the glances of the youth, 

Soft his speech, and soft his sigh ; 

But no sound like simple truth, 
But no true love in his eye. 


Loathing thy polluted lot. 

Hie thee, Maiden, hie thee hence ! 
Seek thy weeping Mother's cot, 

With a wiser innocence. 

Thou hast known deceit and folly. 
Thou hast felt that Vice is woe : 

With a musing melancholy 
Inly armed, go, Maiden ! go. 

^ VI 

Mother sage of Self-dominion, 
Firm thy steps, O Melancholy ! 


^\ The strongest plume in wisdom's pinion 
^\ Is the memory of past folly. 


Mute the sky-lark and forlorn, 

While she moults the lirstling plumes, 

That had skimmed the tender corn, 
Or the bean -field's odorous blooms. 


Soon with renovated wing 

Shall she dare a loftier tlight, 
Upward to the day-star spring, 

And embathe in heavenly light. 




Tins day among the faithful placed 

And fed witli fontal manna, 
O with maternal title graced — 

Dear Anna's dearest Anna ! 

While others wish thee wise an*l fair, 

A maid of spotless fame, 
I'll breathe this more compendious prayer — 

May'st thou deserve thy name ! 

Thy mother's name, a potent sj>ell. 

That bills the Virtues hie 
Fiom mystic grove antl living cell. 

Confessed to Fancy's eye ; — 


Meek Quietness without offence ; 

Content in homespun kirtle ; 
True Love, and True Love's Innocence, 

White Blossom of the Myrtle ! 

Associates of thy name, sweet Child ! 

These Virtues may'st thou win : 
With face as eloquently mild 

To say, they lodge within. 

So, when her tale of days all flown, 
Thy mother shall be missed here ; 

When Heaven at length shall claim its own 
And Angels snatch their Sister ; 

Some hoary-headed friend, perchance. 

May gaze with stifled breath ; 
And oft, in momentary trance. 

Forget the waste of death. 

Even thus a lovely Rose I viewed 

In summer-swelling pride ; 
Nor marked the bud, that, green and rude 

Peeped at the Rose's side. 

It chanced I passed again that way 

In Autumn's latest hour, 
And wond'ring saw the selfsame spray 

Rich with the self-same flower. 

Ah fond deceit ! the rude green bud 

Alike in shape, place, name, 
Had bloomed where bloomed its parent stud, 

Another and the same ! 




Depart in joy from this world's noise and strife 
To the deep quiet of celestial life ! 
Depart ! — Affection's self reproves the tear 
Wiiich falls, O honoured Parent ! on thy bier ; — 
Yet Nature will be heard, the heart will swell, 
And the voice tremble with a last Farewell ! 



with some POEMS 

Notus ill fratres animi patenii. 

HoR. Carm. Lib ii. j. 

A blesskd lot hath lie, who having passed 
His youth and early manhood in the stir 
And turmoil of the world, retreats at length, 
With cares that move, not agitate the heart. 
To the same Dwelling where his Father dwelt ; 
And haply views his tottering little ones 
ICmbrace those agi'nl knees anil cHml) that lap, 
On wiiich first kneeUng his own Infancy 
l.ispt'd its brief prayer. Such, O my earliest Frieml ! 
Thy lot, and such thy brotliers too enjoy. •" 

At distance did ye climb Life's upland road. 
Yet cheered and cheering : now fraternal Love 
Hath drawn you to one centre. He your days 
Holy, and blest and ble>sing may ye live ! 



To me the Eternal Wisdom hath dispensed 
A different fortune and more different mind — 
Me from the spot where first I sprang to Hght 
Too soon transplanted, ere my soul had fixed 
Its first domestic loves — and hence through life 
Chasing chance-started Friendships. A brief while -" 
Some have preserved me from Life's pelting ills ; 
But, like a Tree with leaves of feeble stem, 
If the clouds lasted, and a sudden breeze 
Ruffled the boughs, they on my head at once 
Dropped the collected shower ; and some most false, 
False and fair — foliaged as the Manchineel, 
Have tempted me to slumber in their shade 
E'en mid the storm ; then breathing subtlest damps. 
Mixed their own venom with the rain from Heaven, 


That I woke poisoned ! But, all praise to Him 
Who gives us all things, more have yielded me 
Permanent shelter ; and beside one Friend, 
Beneath the impervious covert of one Oak, 
I've raised a lowly shed, and know the names 
Of Husband and of Father ; not unhearing 
Of that divine and nightly-whispering Voice, 
Which from my childhood to maturer years 
Spake to me of predestinated wreaths, 
Bright with no fading colours ! 

Yet at times " 

My soul is sad, that I have roamed through life 
Still most a Stranger, most with naked heart 
At mine own home and birthplace : chiefly then, 
When I remember thee, my earliest Friend ! 
Thee, who didst watch my boyhood and my youth ; 
Didst trace my wanderings wih a Father's eye ; 
And boding evil yet still hoping good 
Rebuked each fault, and over all my woes 
Sorrowed in Silence ! He who counts alone 
The beatings of the solitary heart, 5'' 

That Being knows, how I have loved thee ever, 
Loved as a brother, as a Son revered thee ! 
Oh ! 'tis to me an ever new delight. 
To talk of thee and thine : or when the blast 


Of the sliiill wintiT, rattling our rude sash, 
Endears the cleanly hearth and social bowl ; 
Or when as now, on some delicious eve, 
We in our sweet sequestered Orchard-Plot 
Sit on the Tree crooked earthward ; whose old 

That hang above us in an arborous roof, 
Stirred by the faint gale of departing May, 
Send their loose blossoms slanting o'er our heads ! 

Nor dost not fJioit sometimes recall those hours, 
When with the joy of hope thou gavest thine ear 
To my wild hrstling-lays. Since then my song 
Hath sounded deeper notes, such as beseem 
Or that sad wisdom folly lca\-cs lu^hind, 
Or such as, tuned to these tumultuous times, 
Cope with the tempest's swell ! 

These various strains. 
Which I have framed in many a various mood. 
Accept, my Brother ! and (for some perchance 
\\"\\l strike discordant on thv miltler mind) 
II aught of Error or intemperate Truth 
Slu)uld meet thine ear, think thou that riper age 
Will calm it down, and let thy Love forgive it ! 





In the June of 1797, some long-expected friends paid a visit 
to the Author's Cottage ; and on the morning of their arrival, 
he met with an accident, which disabled him from walking during 
the whole time of their staj'. One evening, when they had 
left him for a few hours, he composed the following lines in the 

Well, they are gone, and here must I remain — 
This Lime-tree Bower my Prison ! I have lost 
Beauties and Feehngs, such as would have been 
Most sweet to my remembrance even when Age 
Had dimmed mine eyes to blindness ! They, mean- 
Friends, whom I never more may meet again, 
On springy heath, along the hill-top edge. 
Wander in gladness, and wind down, perchance, 
To that still roaring dell, of which I told ; 
The roaring dell, o'erwooded, narrow, deep, 1" 

And only sp eckled by themid-day Sun ; 
Where its sITrn tiunk L lie^asTTlroni'ro ck t o roc k 
Flings...aF€Mn§4ike-^r4M±lge ; — ttiat branchless ash. 
Unsunned and damp, whose few poor yellow leaves 
Ne'er tremble in the gale, yet tremble still 
Fanned by the water-fall * and there my friends 
Behold the dark green file of long lank weeds,* 
That all at once (a most fantastic sight !) 
Still nod and drip beneath the dripping edge 
Of the blue clay-stone. 2° 

Now, my Friends emerge 
Beneath the wide wide Heaven — and view again 
The many-steepled track magnificent 
Of hilly fields and meadows, and the sea, 
With some fair bark, perhaps, whose sails light up 

* Of Long Lank Weeds. The Asplenium Scolopendrium, 
called in some countries the Adder's Tongue, in others the Hart's 
tongue : but Withering gives the Adder's Tongue as the trivial 
name of the Ophioglossum only. 

145 K 




The slip of smooth clear blue betwixt two Isles 

Of j)urplc shadow ! Yes ! they wander on 

In gladness all ; but thou, methinks, most glad, 

My gentle-hearted Charles ! for thou hast pined 

And hungered after Nature, many a year, 

In the great City pent, winning thy way 

With sad yet patient soul, through evil and pain 

-And strange calamity ! Ah ! sl owly sink 

Heiiind tiie western ridge, tho u gloriou s Sun ! 

Shi ne in tTieliaiil beuiiis ofTlTe sinking orb 

Ye4)ur]M^jieaTE?ll()weis I lichTier burn, ye clouds ! 

LivemtTic^eUow liglit. ye distant groves ! 

•\nd kinille, thou blue Ocean ! So my Friend 

Struck with deep joy may stand, as I have stood, 

Silent with swimming sense ; yea, gazing round *° 

On the wide landscape, gaze till all doth seem 

Less ^gross than bod ily ; and of such hues 

As veil the Almiglity Spirit, when yet he makes 

SjMrits perceive his presence, 

A delight 
Comes sudden on my heart, and I am glad 
As I m\sclf were there ! Nor in this l)ower. 
This little Lime-Tree l^ower, havp I not marked 
Much that has soothed me. Pale beneath the blaze 
Hung the transparent foliage ; and I watched ^° 

Some broad and sunny leaf, and loved to see 
The shadow of tlie leaf and stem above 
Dappling its sunsliine ! And that walnut-tree 
Was richly tinged, and a deep radiance lay 
Full on the ancient ivy, which u^uips 
Th(jse fronting elms, and now witli blackest mass 
Makas their dark branches gleam a lighter hue 
Through the late twilight : and tlioiu^ n_ o>v the b at 
\\'h«A^lssiKMU^^ twitters, 

YeTsml the''solitary humble-bee '° 

Sings in the bean-flower ! Henceforth I shall know 
Tli at Nature ni^'er de'ierW thi- >vi>a- :ind pure — 
No i)lot so narrow, be l)ut Nature lliere, 
No waste so vacant, but may well employ 
Each faculty of sense, and keep the heart 
Awake to I ()\e and l-Jeauty ! and sometimes £ 



'Xis well to be bereft of promised good, 
That we may lift the soul, and contemplate 
\yith lively joy the joys we cannot share. 
My gentle-hearted Charles ! when the last rook '^° 

Beat its straight path along the dusky air 
Homewards, I blest it ! deeming its black wing 
(Now a dim speck, now vanishing in light) 
Had crossed the mighty Orb's dilated glory. 
While thou stood'st gazing ; or when all was still, 
Flewcreekingf o'er thy head, and had a charm 
For thee," niy gentle -_heartedCh arles, to wh om \i 
No _sound isdisson anF which tells of Life. j( 

~~" ~ ■ 1797 



[Osorio, Act iv. scene i.] 

Foster-M other. I never saw the man whom you 

Maria. 'Tis strange ! ! he spake of you familiarly 
As mine and Albert's common Foster-mother. 
Foster- Mother. Now blessings on the man, whoe'er 
he be. 
That joined your names with mine ! O my sweet 

As often as I think of those dear times 

* Flew creekuig. Some months after I had written this hne, 
it gave me pleasure to find that Bartram had observed the same 
circumstance of the Savanna Crane. " When those birds move 
their wings in flight, their strokes are slow, moderate, and regular ; 
and even when at a considerable distance on high above us,, 
we plainly hear the quill-feathers ; their shafts and webs upon 
one another creek as the joints or working of a vessel in a tem- 
pestuous sea." 


When you two little ones would stand at eve, 

On each side of my chair, and make me learn 

All you had learnt in the day ; and how to talk 

In gentle phrase, then bid me sing to you — *" 

'Tis more like heaven to come, than what has been ! 

Maria. O my dear Mother ! this strange man has 
left me 
Troubled with wilder fancies, than the moon 
Breeds in the love-sick maid who gazes at it, 
Till lost in inward vision, with wet eye, 
She gazes idly ! — But that entrance. Mother ! 

Foster-Mother. Can no one hear ? It is a perilous 

Maria. No one. 

Fostcr-Mothcr. My husband's father told it me, 
Poor old Leoni ! — Angels rest his soul ! -" 

He was a woodman, and could fell and saw 
With lusty arm. You know that huge round beam 
Which props the hanging wall of the old chapel ? 
lieneath that tree, while yet it was a tree, 
He found a baby wrapt in mosses, lined 
With thistle-beards, and such small locks of wool 
As hang on lirambles. Well, he brought him home. 
And reared him at the then Lord Vclez' cost. 
And so the babe grew uji a pretty boy, 
A pretty boy, but most imteachable — '" 

And never learnt a prayer, nor told a bead, 
But knew the names of birds, and mocked their notes. 
And whistled, as he were a bird himself : 
And all the autumn 'twas his only play 
To get the seeds of wild lli)wers, ami to jilant them 
Witli earth and water, on the stumps of trees. 
A Friar, who gathered simples in the wood, 
A grey-haireil man — he lovetl this little boy. 
The boy loved him — and. when the Friar taught him, 
He soon could write with the pen ; and from that 

Lived chirtly at the Convent or the Castle: *° 

So he became a very Icarni^d youth. 
But Oh ! poor wretch ! — he reatl, and read, and read, 
Till \\\> brain turned — and ere his twentieth vear. 



He had unlawful thoughts of many things : 

And though he prayed, he never loved to pray 

With holy men, nor in a holy place — 

But yet his speech, it was so soft and sweet. 

The late Lord Velez ne'er was wearied with him. 

And once, as by the north side of the Chapel ^^ 

They stood together, chained in deep discourse, 

The earth heaved under them with such a groan. 

That the wall tottered, and had well-nigh fallen 

Right on their heads. My Lord was sorely frightened ; 

A fever seized him ; and he made confession 

Of all the heretical and lawless talk 

Which brought this judgment : so the youth was seized 

And cast into that hole. My husband's father 

Sobbed like a child — it almost broke his heart. 

And once as he was working in the cellar, 

He heard a voice distinctly ; 'twas the youth's, ^^ 

Who sung a doleful song about green fields. 

How sweet it were on lake or wild savannah 

To hunt for food, and be a naked man, 

And wander up and down at liberty. 

He always doted on the youth, and now 

His love grew desperate ; and defying death, 

He made that cunning entrance I described : 

And the young man escaped. 

Maria. 'Tis a sweet tale : 

Such as would lull a listening child to sleep, 
His rosy face besoiled with unwiped tears. — '"^ 

And what became of him ? 

Foster -Mother. He went on shipboard 
With those bold voyagers, who made discovery 
Of golden lands. Leoni's younger brother 
Went likewise, and when he returned to Spain, 
He told Leoni, that the poor mad youth, 
Soon after they arrived in that new world. 
In spite of his dissuasion, seized a boat, 
And all alone set sail by silent moonlight. 
Up a great river, great as any sea. 

And ne'er was heard of more : but 'tis supposed, ^" 

He lived and died among the savage men. 



[From Osorio, Act v. ; and Remorse, Act v. scene i.] 

And this place our forefathers made for men ! 

This is tlie i>n)cc.->s of our love and wisdom, 

To each poor brother who offends against us — 

Most innocent, perhaps — and what if guilty ? 

Is this the only cure ? Merciful God ! 

Each pore and natural outlet shrivelled up 

By ignorance and parching poverty, 

His energies roll back upon his heart, 

And stagnate and corrupt ; till changed to poison. 

They break out on him, like a loathsome plague-spot ; 

Then we call in our pampered mountebanks — 

And this is their best cure ! uncomforted 

And friendless solitude, groaning and tears, 

And savage faces, at the clanking hour, 

Seen through the steaming vapours of his dungeon, 

l^y the lamp's dismal twilight ! So he lies 

Circled with evil, till his very soul 

Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deformed 

By sights of ever more deformity ! 

With other ministrations thou, O Nature ! 
Healest thy wandering and distempered child : 
Thou ])ourest on him thy soft influences, 
Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets, 
Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and waters, 
Till he relent, and can no more endure 
To be a jarring and a dissonant thing 
Amid this general dance and minstrelsy ; 
H\it, bursting into tears, wins back his way, 
His angry spirit healed and harmonized 
\^\^ the benignant touch of Love and Beauty. 






While my young cheek retains its healthful hues, 

And I have many friends who hold me dear, 

L — — ! methinks, I would not often hear 
Such melodies as thine, lest I should lose 
All memory of the wrongs and sore distress 

For which my miserable brethren weep ! 

But should uncomforted misfortunes steep 
My daily bread in tears and bitterness ; 
And if at Death's dread moment I should lie 

With no beloved face at my bedside, 
To fix the last glance of my closing eye, 

Methinks such strains, breathed by my angel-guide. 
Would make me pass the cup of Anguish by, 

Mix with the blest, nor know that I had died ! 



[signed " nehemiah higginbottom"] 

Pensive at eve on the hard world I mus'd, 

And my poor heart was sad : so at the moon 

I gaz'd — and sigh'd, and sigh'd ! — for, ah ! how soon 

Eve darkens into night. Mine eye perus'd 

With tearful vacancy the dampy grass 

Which wept and glitter' d in the paly ray ; 

And I did pause me on my lonely way. 

And mused me on those wretched ones who pass 

O'er the black heath of Sorrow. But, alas ! 


Most of Myself 1 thought : when it befell 
That the sooth Si)iiit of the breezy wood 
I^reath'd in mine ear — " All this is very well ; 
But much of one thing is for fio thing good." 
Ah ! my poor heart's inexplicable swell ! 



! I do love thee, meek Simplicity ! 
For (jf thy lays the lulling simj)leness 

(iocs to my heart and soothes each >-mall distress, 
Distress though small, yet haply great to me ! 
'Tis true on Lady Fortune's gentlest pad 

1 aiul^le on ; yet, though I know not why. 
So sad 1 am ! — but should a friend and 1 
Grow cool and mHj, () ! I am very sad ! 
Aiul then with sonnets anil with sympathy 
My dreamy bosom's m\stic woes I j)all ; 
Now of n)y false friend jilaining j^laintively. 
Now raving a>. mankind in general ; 

Hut. whether sail or herce, 'tis simple all, 
All \ery simple, meek Simplicity ! 



And this reft house is that the which he built. 
Lamented Jack ! And here his malt he pil'd, 
Cautious in vain ! These rats that squeak so wild, 
SipiiMk not un(f)nscious of their father's guilt. 
Did ye not see her gleaming thro' the glade .-* 
lielikc, 'twas she, tlie maiden all forlorn. 
What though she milk no cow with crumpled horn, 
Vet aye she haunts the dale where erst she stray'd ; 
And (/)'(• beside her stalks her amorous knight ! 
Still on his thighs tluir wonted brogues are worn, 
.•\nd thro' those brogues, still tatter'il and betorn, 
His hindward charms gleam an unearthly white ; 
As when thro' broken clouds at night's high noon 
Peeps in fair fragments forth the fuU-orb'd harvest-moon! 




[The Author has pubHshed the following humble fragment 
encouraged by the decisive recommendation of more than one 
of our most celebrated living Poets. The language was intended 
to be dramatic, that is suited to the narrator : and the metre 
corresponds to the homeliness of the diction. It is, therefore, 
presented as the fragment, not of a Poem, but of a common 
Ballad-tale. Whether this is sufficient to justify the adoption 
of such a style, in any metrical composition not professedly 
ludicrous, the Author is himself in some doubt. At all events, 
it is not presented as poetry, and it is in no way connected with 
the Author's judgment concerning poetic diction. Its merits 
if any, are exclusively psychological. The story which must 
be supposed to have been narrated in the first and second parts 
is as follows. 

Edward, a young farmer, meets at the house of Ellen her 
bosom-friend RIary, and commences an acquaintance, which 
ends in a mutual attachment. With her consent, and by the 
advice of their common friend Ellen, he announces his hopes 
and intentions to Mary's mother, a widow-woman bordering 
on her fortieth year, and from constant health, the possession 
of a competent property, and from having had no other children 
but Mary and another daughter (the Father died in their infancy), 

, retaining for the greater part, her personal attractions and come- 

l liness of appearance : but a woman of low education and violent 
temper. The answer which she at once returned to Edward's 
application was remarkable — " Well, Edward ! you are a hand- 
some young fellow, and you shall have my daughter." From 
this time all their wooing passed under the Mother's eye ; and, 
in fine, she became herself enamoured of her future son-in-law, 
and practised every art, both of endearment and of calumn^^ to 
transfer his affections from her daughter to herself. (The out- 
lines of the tale are positive facts, and of no very distant date, 
though the author has purposely altered the names and the scene 

( of action, as well as invented the characters of the parties and 
the detail of the incidents.) Edward, however, though per- 

t plexed by her strange detractions from her daughter's good 
qualities, yet in the innocence of his own heart still mistaking 
her increasing fondness for motherly affection ; she at length, 

1 overcome by her miserable passion, after much abuse of Mary's 
temper and moral tendencies, exclaimed with violent emotion — 
" O Edward ! indeed, indeed, she is not fit for you — she has not 
a heart to love you as you deserve. It is I that love you ! Marry 
me, Edward ! and I will this very day settle all my property on 
you." The Lover's eyes were now opened and thus taken by sur- 
prise, whether from the effect of the horror which he felt, acting as 
it were hysterically on his nervous system, or that at the first 



moment he lost the sense of guilt of the proposal in the feelini^ 
of its strangeness and absurdity, he flung her from him ami 
burst into a (it of laughter. Irritated by this almost to frenzy, 
the woman fell on her knees, ami in a loud voice that approached 
to a scream, she prayed for a Curse both on him and on hi • 
own Child. Mary happened to be in the room directly aboN 
them, heard Edward's laugh and her Mother's blasphemous 
prayer and fainted away. He, hearing the fall, ran upstai^^ 
and taking her in his arms, carried her off to Ellen's home ; and 
after some fruitless attempts on her part toward a reconcilia 
tion with her .Mother, she was married to him. — .\nd here tl.' 
thiid part of the tale begins. 

I was not led to choose this story from any partiality to tragic, 
much less to monstrous events (though at the time that I com- 
posed the verses, somewhat more than twelve years ago, I was 
less averse to such subjects than at present), but from finding 
in it a striking proof of the possible effect on the imagination, 
from an idea violently and suddenly impressed on it. I had been 
reading Bryan lulwards's account of the effect of the Ohy Witch- 
craft on the Negroes in the West Indies, and Hearne's deeply 
interesting anecdotes of similar workings on the imagination of 
the Copper Indians (those of my readers who have it in their 
power will be well repaid for the trouble of referring to those 
works for the passages alluded to) and I conceived the design of 
showing that instances of this kind are not peculiar to savage 
or barbarous tribes, and of illustrating the mode in which the 
mind is affected in these cases, and the progress and symptoms 
oi the morbid action on the fancy from the beginning. 

The tale is supposed to be narrated by an old Sexton, in a 
country churchyard, to a traveller whose curiosity had been 
awakened by the apjx>arance of three graves, close by each 
other, to two only of which there were grave-stones. On the 
first of these was the name, and dates, as usual : on the second, 
no name, but only a date, and the words, " The Mercy of God 
is infinite."] 

The grapes upon the Vicar's wall 

Were ripe as ripe could be ; 
And yellow leaves in Sun and Wind 

Were falling from the tree. 

On the hedge-elms in the narrow lane 
Still swung the spikes of corn : 

Dear Lord ! it seems but yesterday — 
Young Edward's marriage-morn. 

Up through that wood behind the church, 
There leads from Edward's door 

A mossy track, all over boughed, 
For half a mile or more. 




And from tlioir hoiiso-door by that track 
The Bride and Bridegroom went ; 

Sweet Mary, though she was not gay, 
Seemed cheerful and content. 

But when tliey to the churchyard came, 

I've heard poor Mary say. 
As soon as she stepped into the sun, 

Her heart it died away. 20 

And when the Vicar joined tluir hands, 

Her hmbs did creep and freeze ; 
I'ut when they }:)raycd, she thought she saw 

Her mother on her knees. 

And o'er the church-path they returned — 

I saw poor Mary's back. 
Just as she stepped beneatli the boughs 

Into the mossy track. 

Her feet ujion the mossy track 

The married maiden set : ^^ 

That moment — I have heard lier say — 

She wished she coukl forget. 

The shade o'er-fluslied her Hmbs with lieal — 

Then came a chill like deatli : 
And when the merry bells rang out, 

They seemed to stop her breath. 

BeniMth the louKst .Mother's curse 

No ciiilil couUl ever thrive : 
.\ Mother is a Mother still, 

The holiest thing alive. *' 

So five months passed : the Mother still 

Would iu\er heal the strife ; 
But I'.dwiud was a lo\ing man, 

And Mary a foncl wile. 




" My sister may not visit us, 
My mother says her nay : 

Edward ! you are all to me, 

1 wish for your sake I could be 

More lifesome and more gay. 

I'm dull and sad ! indeed, indeed ^" 

I know I have no reason ! 
Perhaps I am not well in health. 

And 'tis a gloomy season." 

'Twas a drizzly time — no ice, no snow ! 

And on the few fine days 
She stirred not out, lest she might meet 

Her mother in the ways. 

But Ellen, spite of miry ways 

And weather dark and dreary, 
Trudged every day to Edward's house, ^^ 

And made them all more cheery. 

Oh ! Ellen was a faithful Friend, 

More dear than any Sister ! 
As cheerful too as singing lark ; 
And she ne'er left them till 'twas dark. 

And then they always missed her. 

And now Ash-Wednesday came — that day 

But few to Church repair : 
For on that day you know we read 

The Commination prayer. ''" 

Our late old Vicar, a kind man, 

Once, Sir, he said to me, 
He wished that service was clean out 

Of our good Liturgy. 

The Mother walked into the church — 

To Ellen's seat she went : 
Though Ellen always kept her church 

All church-days during Lent. 


And gentle Ellen welcomed her 
With courteous looks and mild : 

Thought she, " what if her heart should melt, 
And all be reconciled ! " 

The day was scarcely like a day — 
The clouds were black outright : 

And many a night, with half a Moon, 
I've seen the church more light. 

The wind was wild ; against the glass 

The rain did beat and bicker ; 
The church-tower swinging over head, 

You scarce could hear the Vicar ! 

And then and there the Mother knelt, 

And audibly she cried — 
" Oh ! may a clinging curse consume 

This woman by my side ! 

O hear me, hear me, Lord in Heaven. 
Altlunigh you take my life — 

curse this woman, at wliose house 
Young Edward woo'd his wife. 

By night and day. in bed and bower. 

"0 let her cursed be ! ! ! " 
So having prayed, steady and slow 

Slie rose up from her knee. 
And left the church, nor e'er again 

The church-door entered she. 

1 saw poor Ellon kneeling still. 
So pale ! I guessetl not why : 

When she stood up, there plainly was 
A trouble in her eye. 

.And when the prayers were done, we all 

Came round and asked her wl>y : ' 

Giddy slu- seemed, and, sure, there was 
A trouble in her eye. 



But ere she from the church-door stepped 

She smiled and told us why : 
" It was a wicked woman's curse," 

Quoth she, " and what care I ? 


She smiled, and smiled, and passed it off 

Ere from the door she stept — 
But all agree it would have been 

Much better had she wept. '2" 

And if her heart was not at ease, 

This was her constant cry — 
" It was a wicked woman's curse — 

God's good, and what care I ? " 

There was a hurry in her looks, 

Her struggles she redoubled : 
" It was a wicked woman's curse, 

And why should I be troubled ? " 


These tears will come — I dandled her 
When 'twas the merest fairy — 

Good creature ! and she hid it all : 
She told it not to Mary. 

But Mary heard the tale : her arms 
Round Ellen's neck she threw ; 

" Oh Ellen, Ellen, she cursed me. 
And now she hath cursed vou ! " 

I saw young Edward by himself 

Stalk fast adown the lee, 
He snatched a stick from every fence, 

A twig from every tree. ^^^ 

He snapped them still with hand or knee, 

And then away they flew ! 
As if with his uneasy limbs 

He knew not what to do ! 


You see, good sir ! that single hill ? 

His farm lies underneath : 
He heard it there, he heard it all, 

And only gnashed his teeth. 

Now Ellen was a darling love 

In all his joys and cares : ^^° 

And Ellen's name and Mary's name 
Fast-linked they both together came, 

Whene'er he said his prayers. 

And in the moment of his prayers 

He loved them both alike : 
Yea, both sweet names with one sweet joy 

Upon his heart did strike ! 

He reached his home, and by his looks 

They saw his inward strife : 
And they clung round him with their arms, '•" 

Both Ellen and his wife. 

And Mary could not check her tears, 

So on his breast she bowetl ; 
Then Frenzy melted into Grief, 

And Edward wept aloud. 

Dear Ellen did not weep at all, 

But closelier did she cling. 
And turned her face and looked as if 

She saw some frightful thing. 


To sec a man tread ovi-r Graves 

1 hold it no good mark : 
'Tis wicked in the Sun and Moon. 

And bad luck in the ilark ! 

You see that grave ? The Lord he gives 

The Lord, he takes away : 
() Sir ! the child of my old age 

I.iis there as cold as clay. 

170 1 





Except that grave, you scarce see one 

That was not dug by me ; 
I'd rather dance upon 'em all ^8" 

Than tread upon these three ! 

" Aye, Sexton ! 'tis a touching tale." 

You, Sir ! are but a lad ; 
This month I'm in my seventieth year, 

And still it makes me sad. 

And Mary's sister told it me, 

For three good hours and more ; 
Though I had heard it, in the main, 

From Edward's self, before. 

Well ! it passed off ! the gentle Ellen i^o 

Did well nigh dote on Mary ; 
And she went oftener than before, 
And Mary loved her more and more : 

She managed all the dairy. 

To market .she on market-days, 

To church on Sundays came ; 
All seemed the same : all seemed so, Sir ! 

But all was not the same ! 

Had Ellen lost her mirth ? Oh ! no ! 

But she was seldom cheerful ; 200 

And Edward looked as if he thought 

That Ellen's mirth was fearful. 

When by herself, she to herself 

Must sing some merry rhyme ; 
She could not now be glad for hours, 

Yet silent all the time. 

And when she soothed her friend, through all 

Her soothing words 'twas plain 
She had a sore grief of her own, 

A haunting in her brain. 2'" 




And oft she said, I'm not grown thin ! 

And then her wrist she spanned : 
And once wlien Mary was downcast, 

She took her by the hand, 
And gazed upon her, and at first 

She gently pressed her hand ; 

Then harder, till her grasp at length 

Did gripe like a con\ulsion ! 
" Alas ! " said she, '* we ne'er can be 

Made hai)py by compulsion ! " 

And once her both arms suddenly 

Round Mary's neck she flung. 
And lu-r heart panted, and she felt 

The words uj)on her tongue. 

She felt tlu'in coining, but no ]iowcr 

Had she the words to smother ; 
And with a kind of shriek she cried, 

" Oh Christ ! you're like your Mother ! " 

So gentle Ellen now no more 

Could make this sad house cheery ; 

And Mary's niclanclioly wavs 
Drove Etlward wild and weary. 

Lingering he raised his latch at eve. 

Though tired in heart and limb : 
Hi' loved no otlu'r place, and \et 

Home was no honu^ to him. 

One evening he took uj^ a book, 

And notliing in it read ; 
Then flung it down, and groaning cried. 

'• Oh 1 Heaven ! that I were ilead." -*^ 

Mary l(x)ked uj) into his face. 

And nothing to him said; 
She trii'd to smile, and on his arm 

.MournluU}' leaned her head. 


And he burst into tears, and fell 

Upon his knees in prayer : 
" Her heart is broke ! O God ! my grief, 

It is too great to bear ! " 

'Twas such a foggy time as makes 

Old Sextons, Sir ! like me, 
Rest on their spades to cough ; the spring 

Was late uncommonly. 

And then the hot days, all at once. 
The}' came, we knew not how : 

You looked about for shade, when scarce 
A leaf was on a bough. 





It happened tlien ('twas in tlie bower, 

A furlong up the wood : 
Perhaps you know the place, and yet 

I scarce know how you should), 

No path leads thither, 'tis not nigh 

To any pasturc-j)lot ; 
Rut clustered near tlie cliattcring brook. 

Lone hollies marked the spot. 


Those hollies of themselves a shape 

As of an arbour took. 
A close, round arbour ; and it stands 

Not three strides from a brook. 

Wifliin this arliour. wliich was still 

With scarlet berries hung, 
Were these three friends, one Sunday morn, 

Just as the fust bell rung. 

'Tis sweet to hear a l)rc)ok. 'tis sweet 

To hear the Sabbath-bell. 
'Tis sweet to hear them both at once. 

Deep in a woody dell. 

His limbs along the moss, his hea4 

Ujion a mossy heaji. 
With shut-uj) senses, ICdward lay : 
That brook e'en on a working day -"'' 

Might chatter one to sleep. 

Anil lu: had passi-il a restless night, 

And was not well in health ; 
The women sat down by his side. 

And talked as 'twere by stealth. 

" The Sun peeps through the close thick leave<?. 

See, deal est Ellen ! See ! 
'Tis in the leaves, a little Sun, 

No bigger than your ee ; 



A tiny Sun, and it has got 290 

A perfect glory too : 
Ten thousand threads and hairs of Hght, 
Make up a glory, gay and bright, 

Round that small orb, so blue." 

And then they argued of those rays, 
What colour they might be : 
• Says this, " they're mostly green ; " says that, 
" They're amber-like to me." 

So they sat chatting, while bad thoughts 

Were troubling Edward's rest ; ^'"^ 

But soon they heard his hard quick pants, 
And the thumping in his breast. 

" A Mother, too ! " these self-same words 

Did Edward mutter plain ; 
His face was drawn back on itself, 

With horror and huge pain. 

Both groaned at once, for both knew well 
What thoughts were in his mind ; 

When he waked up, and stared like one 
That hath been just struck blind. 

He sat upright ; and ere the dream ^^^ 

Had had time to depart, 
" O God, forgive me ! " (he exclaimed) 

" I have torn out her heart." 

Then Ellen shrieked, and forthwith burst 

Into ungentle laughter ; 
And Mary shivered, where she sat, 

And never she smiled after. 


Carmen reliquum, in futurum tempus relegatum ! To-morrow ! 
and to-morrow ! and to-morrow ! [S. T. C. 1809.] 

\C?- o 


> ' ^ , 

Facild credo, plurcs esse Naturas invisihilcs qiiani visibilcs, 
in rcrum universitatc . . . sed horum omnium iamiliam quis 
nobis enarrabit ? ct pratlus ct cof^nationcs ct discrimina et sin^u- 
lonim muncra ? [Quid agunt ? ([iia; loca habitant ?] Harum 
rcnim notitiam semjier ambivit iuRenium humanum, nunquam 
attigit. . . . Juvat. uti<]ui', non diffiteor. (luandoque in animo, 
tanquam in Tabula, majoris t-t mclioris nn!n<li imagincm con- 
templari : ne mens assuefacta hodiema; vita* minutiisse contrahat 
nimis, et tola subsidat in pusillas cogitationcs. Sed vcritati 
intcrca invigilandum est, modiis<]ue scrvandus, ut ccrta ab 
inccrtis, diem a nocte. distinguanius. 

T. Burnet : Arch.i£ol. Phil. 1692, p. 68. 


How a ship having passed the Line was driven by storms to 
the cold country towards tlie Soutli I'olc ; and liow from thence 
she made her course to the trojiical latitude of the great I'acilic 
Ocean; 'and of the strange things she befell; and in what 
manner the Ancyent Marincre came back to his own country 
Li 798]. 







It is an ancient Manner, *-^ \ An ancient 

And he stoppeth one of three. ^{r'three^Gti- 

" By thy long grey beard and glittering eye, |f;;,',^^|;|^!{"e^*3°. 

Now wherefore StOpp'st thou me ? and detalneth ' 



The Hridegroom's doors are opened wide, 
And I am next of kin ; 
\1 The guests are met, the feast is set : 
May'st hear the merry din." 

He holds liiin with his skinny hand, 
" There was a ship," quolh he. '" 

" Hold off ! unhand me, grey-beard loon ! " 
Eftsoons his hand dropt he. 

The wcddinK- He holds him with his glittering eve — 

bound 'b>-Thl' The Wedding-Guest stood still, 

eye of the old And listcus Ijkc a three years' child : 

sea-faring man, t-., -.. i ji i ■ mi 

and constrained The Manner hath Ins will. 

to hear his tale. 

The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone : 
He cannot clioose but hear ;- 
And thus spake on that ancient man. 
The bright -e\ed Mariner. 

''The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared,, 

Mfirily did we drop 

Below the kirk, below the hill, 

Below the lighthouse top. 

Thr Mariner Tlic Suu cauic up upou the left, 

S s-Xd"" <^^i»t ** the sea came he ! 

southward with Aud lie sliouc luig+it , aiul Oil tlic right 

a ro<h1 wind ami ,,, . , • i 1 1 

fair weatii.r, Went dowu into the sea. 

till it rrai'hed(v^___^ ^_ 

the Line. 

Higher and higher every day, 
Till n\-ei" the mast at noon, — '" 

The WetUling-Guest here beat his breast, 
I-'or he heard the loud bassoon. 

The WrddiuK- ,,,, iii.i i • i i\ in 

r,ur»t hearrih 1 lu" brule luit li paced iiito the hall, 

mu.ic-''but '^^''^ '^"^ ^ '■"''*-' i/^'l^' ; 

thrMa'riner Noddiiig their Beads before her goes 
c^.ti^urth j^^^^ j^^^.,.j.^. „ii,^^trelsy. 

The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast, 
Yet he cannot choose but hear ; 

i And thus spake on that ancient man, 

j The bright-eyed Mariner. 

*' And now the storm-blast came, and he- 
^as tyrannous and string : 
He struck with his o'ertaking wings, 
And chased us south along. 

With sloping masts and dipping prow, 
/As who pursued with yell and blow 
Still treads the shadow of his foe, 


The ship 
drawn by a 
storm toward 
the south pole. 

And forward bends his head, 

The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast, 

Aijd southward aye we fled 

And now there came both mist and snow, 
And it grew wondrous cold : 




And ice, mast-high, came floating by. 
As green as emerald. 

And through the drifts the snowy clifts 
Did send a dismal sheen : 
here no living Nor shaocs of men nor beasts we ken — 
The ice was all between. 

The land of 
ice, and of 
fearful sounds, 

thing was to 
be seen. 

The ice was here, the ice was there, 

The ice was all around : 

It cracked and growled, and roared and 

Like noises in a swound ! 


Till .1 Rrcat 
called the 
came through 
the snow-fog, 
and was re- 
ceived with 
great ji>v and 

At length did cross an All^atross, — 
Thorough the fog it came ; 
As if it had been a Christian soul. 
We hailed it in God's name. 

It ate the food it ne'er had eat. 
And round and round it flew. 
The ice did split witli a thunder-tit ; 
The helmsman steered us through ! 

And lo I the 
prove th a bird 
of K<)0(1 omen, 
and lollowcth 
the ship as it 
returned north- 
ward, through 
fng and 
floating ice. 

The ancient 
killeth the 
pious bird of 
good onicu. 

And a good south wind sprung up behind ; 

The Albatross did follow, 

And every day, for food or play, 

Came to the mariners' hollo ! 

In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud. 

It perched for vesjiers nine ; 

Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke 

Cdimmered the white Moon-shine." 

" God save thcc, ancient Mariner ! 
From the fiends, tiiat plague thee thus! — ^o 
Why look'st thou so ? " — " With my cross- 
I shot the Albatross." 



" The Sun now rose upon the right ' 
Out of the sea came he, 
Still hid in mist, and on the left 
Went down into the sea. 

And the good south wind still blew behind, 

But no sweet bird did follow, 

Nor any day for food or play 

Came to the mariners' hollo ! 8° 



And I had done an hellish thing, 

And it would work 'em woe : 

For all averred, I had killed the bird 

That made the breeze to blow. 

" Ah wretch ! " said they, " the bird to slay. 

That made the breeze to blow ! " 

His shipmates 
cry out against 
the ancient 
Mariner, for 
killing the bird 
of good luck. 

Nor dim nor red, like God's own head, 
The glorious Sun uprist : 
Then all averred, I had killed the bird 
That brought the fog and mist. i*'" 

" 'Twas right," said they, "such birds to slay, 
That bring the fog and mist." 

The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, 
The furrow followed free : 
We were-the first that ever burs t t 
I nto that silent sea. 


But when the 
fog cleared ofl, 
ttiey justiiy tne 
same, ann tnus 

rn^l^-p tVipm- 

sehtes accom- 

The fair breeze 
continues ; the 
ship enters the 
Pacific Ocean 
and sails 
even till it 
reaches the 

Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt 

'Twiis sad as sad could be ; 
The ship hath .\,i,i ^v^. ^\[^\ speak onlv to break 

been siulilcnlv ,„, ., i ,, 


Tlu' silence of the sea ! 


All in a hot and cojipcr sky. 

Tlu' bloody Sun, at noon. 

Right up above the mast did stand, 

No bigger than tlie Moon. 

Day after day, day after ilay, 
We stuck, nor breath nor motion ; 


k J 


Aq irllp as a p ainfprl ship 
Uponaj)aiiit£dLQ££an . 


And the Al- 
batross begins 
to be avenged. 

Water, water, everywhere, 
And all the boards did shrink 
Water, water, everywhere, 
Nor any drop to drink. 

The vei^y deep did rot : O Christ ! 
That ever this should be ! 
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs 
Upon the slimy sea. 

About, about, in reel and rout 
The death-tires danced at night ; 
The water, like a witch's oils, 
Burnt green, and blue, and white. 

And some in dreams assured were a spirit had followed them • one of 
Of the spirit that plagued us so : nl'.^'",^'''-!'"''^^''^"*?."^ '""^ 

XT- s A. J -I r 1 J X 11 1 Planetfneither departed souls nor ,5^,^ «Lf 

Nine tathnni r een he had to nwpd it; angels: conceminp whr,rr, tu^ »— ~ .» 


XT- r A. J 1 L 1 J r 11 1 Planetl neither dep; 

Nine tathoni deep he had followed us angeis^conceming 
From the land of mist and snow. --'^ J-"' ^°'''' 

And ev^^y. . toQ gue. through utter 

Was withered at - the root ; 
W e could not sj ) eak,_ no more than if 

We hadJ^PPn rTTnL-prfwith SOOt. 

_ whom the 

_ j~.., J — ^phus, and the 

Platonic Constantinopolitan, 
Michael Psellus, may be con- 
sulted. They are very nume- 
rous, and there is no climate or 
element without one or more. "N 

t/<nt.i*.f '1 


Ah ! well a-day ! what evil looks 
Had I from old and young ! 
Instead of the cross, the Albatross 
About my neck was hung. 


The shipmates, 
in their sore 
distress, would 
fain throw the 
whole guilt on 
the ancient 
Mariner : in 
sign whereof 
they hang the 
dead sea-bird 
round his neck. 

The ancient 
Marinrr bc- 
holcleth a sign 
in the clement 
afar off. 

At its nearer 
approach, it 
sec Mil' th him 
to Im: a ship ; 
and at a dear 
r.uiScMn ho 
tiic bunds of 

A flash of joy 


There passed a weary time. Each throat 
Was parched, and glazed each eye. 
A weary time ! a weary time ! 
How glazed each weary eye. 
When looking westward, I beheld 
A^.someUunginthc sky. 

At first it seemed a little speck, 
And then it seemed a mist : i" 

It moved and moved, and took at last 
A certain sliajic, I wist. 

A speck, a mist, a shai>e, I wist ! 
And still it neared and neared : 
As if it dodged a water-sprite, 
It jilunged and tacked and veered. 

With throats unslaked, with Mack lijis 

We could nor laugh nor wail ; 
Through utter drought all dumb we stood 
I bjtaiiy-ami,_J_sucked the blopd. 
And med, A ^iiiiLL_liL5ail.! 


With throats unslaked, with black lips baked 
Agape they heard me call : 
(iramercy ! they for joy did grin. 
And all at once their breath ilrew in, 
As t]u\- were drinking all. 



See ! see !' (I cried) she tacks no more ! ' " Andhacfor 
Hither to work us weal,- ^rSSip 

Without a breeze, without a tide, ^atcmneson- 

She steadies with upright keel ! i^^^^Sd^a^ 

The western wave was all a-flame ; 
^The day was well nigh done ! 
Almost upon the western wave 
Rested^tKj^road^BfigRrSun ; 
When that'stran^ shape cirove suddenly 
Betwixt us and the Sun. 

177 M 


It sceincth 
him but the 
skeleton of a 

And its ribs 
are seen as 
bars on the 
(arc of the set 
ting Sun. 

The Spectre- 
Woman and her 
and no other 
on board the 

Like vessel, 
like crew ! 

Wnd straight the Sun was flecked with bars, 
(Heaven's Mother send us grace I) 
ks if through a dungeon-grate he peered 
With broad and burning face. 



Alas ! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) 
How fast she nears and ncars ! 
Are those her sails that glance in the Sun, 
Like restless gossameres ! 

Arc those her ribs through which the Sun 
Did ])eer, as through a grate .' 
And is that Woman all her crew ? 
Is that a Death ? and are there two ? 
Is Death that woman's mate ? 

Her lips were red, her looks were free, *'••" 

Her locks were ycllo\<- as gold : . 

Her skin was as white as Icjirosy-, 

The Niglit-Mare Life-in-Dcath was she, ^a 

Who thicks man's blood with cold.' ^ 

|)e.ith, and 
1-ife-in- Death 
have dired for 
the ship's crew, 
and she (the 
latter) winneth 
the an< itnt 

No twiliKht 
within tiie 
courts of the 

.At the risinK 
of the Moou 

The naketl hulk alongside cam^. 

And the twain were casting dice-; ' — ' 

" The game is done ! I've won ! I've 

won ! " 
Quoth she, and whistles thrice. 

Th<<Sun'.s.aiui djj^s ; tjie stars rus h out . 
At one stride couicls the il ark ; ■-"" 

\vitTrTar-heard whisper, o'er the sea. 
Off shot the spectre-bark. 

We Fist cried, and looked sideways up ! 

EearjitjiU' lieait,_3LS at.a^up, 
/ My life-bloocl_senieiLia-:sip ! 
' Tlie stars were dim, and thick the night. 

The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed 
wliite ; 

Erom the sails the dew did ilrij) — 



Till clojnb above the eastern bar 

TJ;ie horned Moon , with one bright st^ r 

Within the netherTtip^ 


One after one, by the star-dogged Moon, 
Too quick for groan or sigh. 
Each turned his face with a ghastly pang. 
And cursed me with his eye. 

Four times fifty living men, 
(And I heard nor sigh nor groan) 
With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, 
TheyniroppedrdoWn ohFT)y~one. 

One after 

His shipmates 
drop down 
dead ; 


The souls did from their bodies fly, — 
They fled to bliss or woe ! 
And ey&r-;v^O-ul, it passed me by, 
Like tlie wMggiTf my cross-bow ! 


But Life-in- 
Death begins 
her work on 
the ancient 


The WcddiiiK- 
Giicst fearcth 
that a spirit is 
talking to him ; 

" I fear thee, ancient Mariner ! 

1 fear thy .skinn)' liaiul ! 

And thou art long, and lank, and hrown, 

As is the ribbed sea-sand.* 

But thr an- 
cinit Mariner 
nssiurth liiiu 
of his bodily 

T fear thee and thy glittering eye, 
And thy skinny hand, so brown." — 
" Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding- 
Guest ! 
This body dropped not down. 


• For the two last lines of tins stanza I am indehtcil to Mr. 
Wordsworth. It was on a dolinhtfiil walk from Netlier Stowcy 
to Dulvcrtou, with him and his sister, ifT"thc .-Vutuiurt'of T797, 
that this Poem was planned, and in part composed. 

I So 


_all, all alone, 
Alone_i2Il_H_,wide wide sea ! 
And nev£r,a saint took pity on 
My_soulJn agony. 

life, and pro- 

ceedeth to re- 
late his horrible 

The many men, so beautiful ! 

And they all dead did lie T 

And a thousand thousajid slimy things 

Lived on ; and so did I, 

He d espise th 
the rfSaTn res 
of the calm. 

I looked upon the rotting sea, 
And drew my eyes away ; 
I looked upon the rotting deck, 
And there the dead men lay. 

240 And envieth 
t hat they 
s Bouia live , 
and so many 
lie dead. 

I looked to Heaven, and tried to pray 
But or ever a prayer had gushed, 
A wicked whisper came, and made 
My heart as dry as dust. 

I closed my lids, and kept them close, 

And the balls like pulses beat ; 

For thp. sky nnd the sea, and the sea a nd 

Lay li^ a load on my weary eye. 
And the dead were at my feet. 


The cold sweat melted from their limbs. 
Nor rot nor reek did they : 
The look with which they looked on me 
Had never passed away. 

But the curse 
liveth for him 
in the eye of 
the dead men. 


An orphan's curse would drag to Hell 

A spirit from on high ; 

But oh ! more horrible than that 

Is a curse in a dead man's eye ! 
• S,even days, seven ni ghts, I saw that curse, 
I AndTyet i could nofdie. 





In his loneliness and fixednrsi 
he ycarnoth towards the jiniv- 
ncyiiiR MiK)M, and the stars/ 
that still sojourn yet still | 
move onward ; and every - , 
w hrrc the lijiii^ kv l>oiongsV 
t' Tthini, and isTTTTir at>- 
r"'J.'l' '■! ■'"I'l'i ^"'' ''""'•^•''■^•'' 
c<i\iiitrvaii( l till if "Wii n atnral 
hii nies^ w fTicli thev enter nn- 
announred, as lords that are 
certainly expected and yet 
there is a silent joy at their 

The nioviri}^ Moon went up the sky, 
Aiid nowlu-re did abide : 
Softly she was going up, 
And a star or two beside. 

Her beams beniocked the sultry main, 
Like April hoar-frost spread ; 
P)Ut where tlie ship's huge shadow lay 
The charmed water l)urnt alway 
A still and awful red. 


By the light of Heyoiul the shallow of the ship, 
beiK^eth''" I watched the water-snakes : 
God's creatures Tlicy movcd iu tracks of shining white, 
clim!""""" And" when tliev reared, tl ic eltish \m ht 
Frll (ill in hoaiN" tlu- ki^s . 


Their beauty 
and their 

He blesseth 
them in his 

\\itliin the shadow of the ship ~^w- 

1 watclied their rich attire : ' ' • ? «, > t 
P)hn;, glossy green, and velvet black. ^so 
Thry roiled and swam ; and every track 
Was a Jlash of golden hre. 

'^ 'O hapjn' living things ! no tongue 
Their beauty might declare : 
A spring of love gushed from my heart. 
And I blessed thein_una\vare : 
Sure my kind .saint took jiity on me. 
And I blessed tliein unaware. 

The spoil lH^Rins The self sauic luoment I could iirav 

to break. » i r % r 

And from my neck so free 
Tlie Albatross fell off, and sank 
^ hike had into the sea. 





Oh sleep ! it is a gentle thing, 
Beloved from pole to pole ! 
To Mary Queen the praise be given !-, 
She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, 
That slid into my soul. 

The silly buckets on the deck, By grace of the 

That had so long remained, ^he^a^denr' 

I dreamt that they were filled with dew : Mariner is rc- 

And when I awoke, it rained. ^^^ rain/ 

My lips were wet, my throat was cold, 
My garments all were dank ; 
Sure I had drunken in my dreams, 
A. nd still jTiyj2Qdy drank, 

I moved, and could not feel my limbs : 
I was so light — almost 
I thought that I had died in sleep. 
And was a blessed ghost. 

And soon I heard a roaring wind : 
44-4rd not come anear ; 
But with its sound it shook the sails. 
That were so thin and sere. 


He heareth 
sounds, and 
seeth strange 
sights and 
commotions in 
the sky and 
the element. 

The upper air burst into life ! 
And a hundred fire-flags sheen. 
To and fro they were hurried about ! 
And to and fro, and in and out, 
The wan stars danced between. 

And the coming wind did roar more loud. 

And the sails did sigh like sedge ; 

And the rain poured down from one bla< k 

cloud ; 320 

The Moon was at its edge. 




The thick 4>lack -G4o«d- w a e cl e ft, fffid j^till 

Tlie Moon was at its sidet— ^ 

Like waters shot from some high crag, 

The lightning fell with never a jag. 

A river steep and wide. 

The Ixidics of 
the ship's 
crew aro in- 
spired, and 
the ihip moves 


The loud wind never reaches! the ship, 
Yet now the ship moved on ! 
Beneath the lightning and the Moon 
The dead men gave a groan. ^^° 

They groaned, they stirred, they all up-rose. 
Nor spake, nor moved their eye.s ; 
It had been strange, even in a dream. 
To have seen those dead men rise. 

The helmsman steered, the ship moved on ; 

Yet never a breeze up blew ; 

The mariners all 'gan work the ropes. 

Where they were wont to do : 

They raised their limbs like lifeless tools — 

We were a ghastly crew. 


The body of my brother's son 
Stood by me, knee to knee : 
The body and I pulled at one rope. 
Hut he said noucrht to me." 

But not by the 
souls of the 
iMcii, nor by 
da'inons of 
earth or tniddlc 
air, but by a 
blessed troop 
of angelic 
spirits, sent 
down by the 
invocation of 

" I fear thee, ancient Mariner ! " 
" Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest ! 
'Twas not those souls that fled in pain, 
Which to their corses came again, 
Hut a troop of spirits blest : 

For when it dawned — they dropped their 
arms, ^^° 

And clustered round the mast ; 

Sweet sounds rose slowly through their 

And from their bodies passed. 



Aroun d, aro und, fl ew each s ^^££Lsound, 
Then dar tpf r^n fhp Snn ; 
Slowly the sounds came back again, 
Now mixed, now one by one. 

Sometimes a-dropping from the sky 
I heard the sky-lark sing ; 
Sometimes all little birds that are, ^^° 
How they seemed to fill the sea and air 
With their sweet jargoning ! 



And now 'twas like all instruments, 
Now like a lonely flute ; 
And now it is an angel's song. 
That makes the heavens be mute. 

It ceased ; yet still the sails made on 

A j JcasaiU niTT^r tj ll noon. 

.\ iioi-M;Trk (- ot a liiildcn brook 

In tlRnfurv jTirJnih o rj-une. ^"'' 

ThaP TrrThe s TIillpinti' Vt"^'^^ all night 

Sin gcth a qn uii tune. 

Till nt)()n we quietly sailed on, 
" Yet never a breeze did breathe : 
Slowly and smoothly went the ship. 
Moved onward from beneath. 

The l oncgo mr Undcr tlic kcel nine fathom deep. 
Spirit frnn, ih.- Piom the land of mist and snow. 

c.irries on the 1 llC SpUlt SJkI; aUCl it WaS lie 

th'e'Yhu';i,r l^iiit made the ship to go. ?«» 

"!T''*'','?r" .'° ^^^^ sails at noon left off their tune, 
tn'xi'p. but^tiii And the ship stood still also. 

rfquirctli vi-ri- 


The Sun, right up above the mast. 
Had fixed her to the ocean : 
Hut in a minute she 'gan stir, 
With a short uneasy motion — 
Backwards and forwards half her length 
With a short uneasy motion. 

Then like a pawing horse let go. 
She made a suildeii bound : 
It flung the blood into my head, 
Aiul 1 fell down in a swound. 

J''*" ''■"'i'';, IIow long in that same flt I lav, 

Spirit s fellow f^ 

(i.iiiioiis. the I li.iNf nut to declare ; 
i,'!.bTt.mis''.'( I'ut ere my living life returned, 
ii.r.i.iii.nt. I lu-ard and in niv soul discerned 

l.iKc p.irt III ,,, • ■ 1 " • 

liisvvr..iit; ; 1 WO \-OKeS 111 tllC aU'. 



" Is it he ? " quoth one, " Is this the man ? 
By him who died on cross. 
With his cruel bow he laid full low, ^*'" 
The harmless Albatross. 

The spirit who bideth by himself 
In the land of mist and snow, 
He loved the bird that loved the man 
Who shot him with his bow." 

and two of 
them relate, 
one to the 
other, that 
penance long 
and heavy for 
the ancient 
Mariner hath 
been accorded 
to the Polar 
Spirit, who 

The other was a softer voice, 

As soft as honey-dew : 

Quoth he, " The man hath penance done, 

And penance more will do." 


'But tell nic, toll me ! sjicak again, 
Thy soft resixjiise renewing — 
What makes that ship drive on so fast 
What is the ocean doing ? ' 


' Still as a slave before his lord. 
The ocean hath no blast ; 
His great bright eye most silently 
Up to the Moon is cast — 



If he may know which way to go; 
For she guides him smooth or grim. 
See, brother, see ! how graciously 
She looketh down on him.' 


The Mariner ' But why drives on that ship so fast, 
Tnto a urnc"' Witliout or wave or wiml ? ' 

lor the .'tnKelic 
JKiwrr Clll^rlh 
llie vc*vl to 
lirivp imrlh- 


'The air is cut away before, 
And cld^es from behind. 


Fly, brother, fly ! more high, more high 
Or we shall be belated : 
For slow and slow that ship will go. 
When the Mariner's trance is abated.' 

"I woke, and we were sailing on ^ ^^° Thesuper- 
As in a gentle weather : Ts^reurdTd • °" 

'Twas night, calm night, the Moon was high ; the Mariner 

T*i J J j_ 1 j_ J 1 awakes, and 

The dead men stood together. his penance 

begins anew. 

All stood together on the deck, 
For a charnel-dungeon fitter : 
All fixed on me their stony eyes, 
That in the Moon did glitter. 

The pang, the curse, with which they died, 
Had never passed away : 
I could not draw my eyes from theirs, **° 
Nor turn them up to pray. 

And now this spell was snapped : once more Thecutac is -^'^ 
I viewed the ocean green, e^i'ted 

And looked far forth, yet little saw ■ ^ ' 

Of what had else been seen — 

Like one, that on a lonesome road 

Doth walk in fear and dread. 

And having once turned round walks on, 

And turns no more his head ; 

Because he knows a frightful fiend ^^^ 

Doth close behind him tread. 

But soon there breathed a wind on me, 
Nor sound nor motion made : 
Its path was not upon the sea. 
In ripple or in shade. 

It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek 
"ike a meadow-gale of spring — 

t mingled strangely with my fears, 

'et it felt like a welcoming. 


Swiftly, swiftly Hew the ship, 
Yet she sailed softly too : 
Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze- 
On me alone it blew. 


And the an- Oh ! clrcam of jov ! is this indeed 
Edith his The lighthouse top I see ? 
native country. Is this the hill ? is this the kirk ? 
Is this ming owjix '^""trf'f ? 

We drifted o'er the harbour-bar, 
And I with sobs did pray — 
O let me be awake, my God ! 
Or let me slceji alway. 


The harbour-bay was clear as glass, 
So smooThtvHt was strewn ! 
And on the bav the moonlight lay, 
A n d~~f he sliailai»i-o f the moon. 

The rock shone bright, the kirk no less, 
That stands above the rock : 
The moonlight stccj^ed in silentness 
The steady weathercock. 

The .iiiKrllc 
spirits leave 
the dead 

.\nd the bay was wliitc with silent light, 
Till rising from the soine, 
Full many shapes, that sliadows were, 
In crimson colours came. 


And appear in A Httlc distance from the prow 

their own -ri i i 

lornjsoMight. I hose crimson shadows were : 

1 turned my eyes upon the deck — 
Oh, Christ ! what saw I there ! 

Each corse lav flat, lifeless and flat. 
And, by the Holy Rood ! 
A man all light, a seraph-man, 
On every corse there stot^d. 







This seraph-band, each waved his hand : 

Tt was a heavenly sight ! 

They stood as signals to the land, 

Each one a lovely light : ' 

This seraph-band, each waved his hand, 
No voice did they impart — 
No voice ; but oh ! the silence sank 
Like music on my heart. 


But soon I heard the dash of oars, ' 

I heard the Pilot's cheer ; 

My head was turned perforce away, 

And I saw a boat appear. 


I -Xhe-Pilojt, and the PilotX boy. 

i-Tlreard them coming fast : 
Dear Lord in Heaven ! it was a joy 
The dead men could not blast. 

I_saw a third — I heard his voice : 

It is the Hermit good ! 

He singetli loud his godly hymns ^1° 

That he makes in the wood. 

He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away 

The Albatross's blood. ^ 


The Hermit of This Hcriiiit good lives in that wood 

the Wood, ^y,^j^,^ gj^p^^ ^^^^,^ ^^ ^j^g gg^ 

How loudly his sweet voice he rears I 
He loves to talk with mariner cs 
That come from a far countree. 

He kneels at morn, and noon and eve — 
I He hath a cushion plump : ^-^ 

It is the moss that wholly hides 
l_ ^ The rotted old oak-stump.l 

^ ^^" I ^ 

cj^ V [The skiff-boat neared : I heard them 

"*^ v^ ' Why this is strange, I trow ! 

Where are those lights so many and 

That signal made but now ? ' 


Approachcth ' Straugc, by my faith!' the Hermit said — 
wo'ud'cr'*'"' ' ^"^^ they answered not our cheer ! 

The planks looked warped ! and see those 

How thin they are and sere ! ^'" 

I never saw auf^ht like to them. 

Unless perchance it were 

Brown skeletons of leaves that lag 
^fy~foEetit^i5IQQS!aIon g"; 
Wiien the ivy-tod is heavy with snow. 
And the owlet whoops to the wolf below. 
That eats the she-wolf's young.' 


' Dear Lord ! it hath a fiendish look — 
(The Pilot made reply) 

I am a-feared ' — ' Push on, push on I ' ^*° 
Said the Hermit cheerily. 



The boat came closer to the ship, 
--Rut I nor spake nor stirred ; 
The boat came close beneath the ship, 
Aad: straight a sound was heard. , 

Under the water it rumbled on, The ship sud- 

Still louder and more dread : ^ ysm-et . 

It reached the ship, it split the bay ; 
The ship went down like lead. 

Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound, ^^" The ancient 
Which sky and ocean smote, ^tedln'the 

Like one that hath been seven days Piiofsboat. 

My body lay afloat ; 
But swift as dreams, myself I found>. 
WithirTthe Pilot's" boat. / 

Upon the whirl, where sank the ship. 
The boat spun round and round ; 
And all was still, save that the h ill 
Was telling of t h^^ound. ' 

■ ^ - - " • 

I moved my lips — the Pilot shrieked ' ^^^ 

And fell down in a fit ; 

The holy Hermit raised his eyes, 

And prayed where he did sit. 

I took the oars : the Pilot's boy, \ 

Who now doth crazy go. 

Laughed loud and long, and all tlie while 

His eyes went to and fro. 

' Ha ! ha ! ' quoth he, ' full plain I see. 

The Devil knows how to row.' 

And now, all in my own countree, ^'^ 

I stood on the firm land ! 
The Hermit stepped forth from the boat. 
And scarcely he could stand. 


The ancient 
enlreateth tlic 
Hermit to 
slirieve him ; 
and the |m-- 
natiiH. of life 
falls on him. 

' O sliricve me, shrievo iiu-. holy nuin ! ' 
The HiMinit crossed his brow. 
' Say quick,' quoth he, ' I hid tliee say- 
What manner of man art thou ? ' 

Forthwitli thi.s frame of mine was wrenched 

With a woeful agony. 

Which forced me to begin my talc ; 

And then it left me free. 


And fvf r ami 
anon throu^h- 
i>ut his ftitiiii' 
life an a^ony 
him ti> tr.ivol 
from land to 

Since then, at an uncertain hour, 
riiat agony returns ; 
And till my ghastly tale is (old, 
This heart within me burns. 


I pass, like night, from land to land 
I have strange power of speech ; 
T hat moment tj mthis face I see, 
I know the m amjji ai^must h ear me ; 
To him my tale I teach. 


What loud uproar burst from that door ! 
The wedding-guests are there : 


Hut in tlie garden-bovver the bride 
And bride-maids singing are : 
And luuk the little vesper bell, 
Which biddeth mo to prayer ! 

() Wedding-Guest ! this soul hath been 
Alone on a wide wide sea : 
S o lon ely 'twas, that God himself 
Scarce scenictl llicrc to be. 


O sweeter than the marriage-feast, 
'Tis sweeter far to me. 
To walk together to the kirk 
With a goodly company ! — 

To walk together to the kirk, 

.\nd all together j)ray. 

While each to his great Father bends. 

Old men, and babes, and loving friends. 

And youths and maidens gay ! 

And to teach, Farcwoll, farewell ! but this I tell 
cxam*.rcjovo To thcc, tliou Wcddiug-Guest ! 



He prayeth well, who loveth well 
Both man and bird and beast. 

He prayeth best, who loveth best 
All things both great and small ; 
For the dear God who loveth us 
He made and loveth all." 

and reverence 
to all things 
that God made 
and loveth. 

The Mariner, whose eye is bright j 
Whose beard with age is hoar, 
Is gone : and now the Wedding-Guest 
Turned from the bridegroom's doorj 


He went like one that hath been stunned, 
And is of sense forlorn : 
A s adder and a wiser_ nian. 
He rose th e morrow morn . 



STRETCHFn on a mouUlcrcd Ablioy's Inoadcst wall. 

Wlu'ic ruining ivies iirojipod tho ruins sti'op — 
Her folded arms wrapping her tattered pall, 
Had Melanrlioly mused herself to sleeji. 
The fern was pressed beneath her hair, 
The dark green Adder's Tongiie * was there; 
An . still as jxist the flagging sea-gale weak. 
The long lank l(\af howi-d fluttering o'er hei" cheek. 

That j)allid cheek was Hushed : her eager look 
Beamed eloquent in shnnber ! Inly wrought, 

Imperfect sounds lu i moving lijis forsook. 
And her bent forehead worked with troubled thought. 

Strange was the dream 


♦ A lU)t;miral inistiikf. Tlu- iilant, I nic.-xnt. is called Hart's 
TotiKiK" ; but this would unluckily sjxjil tlii' poetical cHect. 
{Cedat iiiio Holitiiifv. [S. f. f. 1S17.)) 




Almost awake ? Why, what is this, and whence, 

O ye right loyal men, all undefiled ? 
Sure, 'tis not possible that Common Sense 

Has hitched her pulhes to each heavy eye-lid ? 

Yet wherefore else that start, which discomposes 
The drowsy waters lingering in your eye ? 
And are you really able to descry 

That precipice three yards beyond your noses ? 

Yet flatter you I cannot, that your wit 

Is much improved by this long loyal dozing ; 

And I admire, no more than Mr. Pitt, 

Your jumps and starts of patriotic prosing — 

Now cluttering to the Treasury Cluck, like chicken, 
Now with small beaks the ravenous Bill opposing ; 

With serpent-tongue now stinging, and now licking. 
Now semi-sibilant, now smoothly glozing — 

Now having faith implicit that he can't err, 
Hoping his hopes, alarmed with his alarms ; 

And now believing him a sly enchanter, 

Yet still afraid to break his brittle charms, ^" 

Lest some mad devil suddenly unhamp'ring. 

Slap-dash ! the imp should fly off with the steeple, 

On revolutionary broom-stick scampering. — 
O ye soft-headed and soft-hearted people. 

If you can stay so long from slumber free, 
My muse shall make an effort to salute 'e : 

For lo ! a very dainty simile 
Flash'd sudden through my brain, and 'twill just 
suit 'e ! 

You know that water-fowl that cries. Quack ! 
Quack ! ? 
Full often have I seen a waggish crew ^° 



Fasten the Bird of Wisdom on its back, 

The ivy-haunting bird, that cries. Tu-whoo ! 

I>oth plunged together in the deep mill-stream, 
(Mill-stream, or farmyard jiond, or mountain-lake.) 

Shrill, as a Church and Constitittion scream, 

Tn-wJwo ! quoth Broad-face, and down dives the 
Drake ! 

The green-neck'd Drake once more pops up to view, 
Stares round, cries Quack ! and makes an angry 
l^other ; 

Then shriller screams the bird with eyelids blue, 
The broad-faced bird ! and deeper dives the other. 

Ye quacking Statesmen ! 'tis even so with you — 
One pcasccod is not liker to another. 

Even so on Loyalty's Decoy-pond, each 

Pops up his head, as fir'd with British blood. 

Hears once again the Ministerial screech, 

And once more seeks the bottom's blackest mud ! 




I .MIX in life, and labour to seem free, 

With common persons pleased and common things, 
While every thought and action tends to thee, 

And ev(MV impulse from tli\' intluonco springs. 


5^-WAR-ECLOGUl ^^ 

The Scene a desolated Tract in La VendJe. Famine is discovered 
lying on the ground ; to her enter Fire and Slaughter. 

Sisters ! sisters ! who sent you here ? 

Slaughter {to Fire). 
I will whisper it in her ear. 

No ! no ! no ! 
Spirits hear what spirits tell : 
Twill make an holiday in Hell. 

No ! no ! no ! 
Myself, I named him once below, 
And all the souls, that damned be, 
Leaped up at once in anarchy, 
Clapped their hands and danced for glee. 
They no longer heeded me ; 
But laughed to hear Hell's burning rafters 
Unwillingly re-echo laughters ! 

No ! no ! no ! 
Spirits hear what spirits tell : 
Twill make an holiday in Hell ! 





Whisper it. Sister ! so and so ! 
In a dark hint, soft and slow. 


Letters four do form his name — 
And who sent you ? 


Tlic same ! the same ! -" 


He came by stealth, and unlocked my den, 
And I have drunk the blood since then 
Of thrice three hundred thousand men. 

Who bade you do 't ? 


The same ! the same ! 
Letters four do form his name. 
He let me loose, and crictl Halloo ! 
To him alone the jnaise is due. 


Thanks. Sister, thanks ! the men have bled. 
Their wives and their chiUhen faint for bread. 
1 stood in a swamjiy field of battle; ^" 

With bones and skulls I made a rattle, 
To frif^hten the wolf and c.irrion-crow 
' And the homeless dog — but they would not go. 
So off I flew : for how coidd I bear 
To see them £;ort,'e their dainty fare ? 
I heard a groan and a |)ee\ish scjuall. 
Through the chink of a cottage-wall — 
Can you guess what I ^aw there .•' 



Whisper it, Sister ! in our ear. 


A baby beat its dying mother : . *" 

I had starved the one and was starving the other ! 

Who bade you do 't ? 


The same ! the same ! 
Letters four do form his name. 
He let me loose, and cried, Halloo ! 
To him alone the praise is due. 


Sisters ! I from Ireland came ! 

Hedge and corn-fields all on flame, 

I triumphed o'er the setting sun ! 

And all the while the work was done. 

On as I strode with my huge strides, ^^ 

I flung back my head and I held my sides, 

It was so rare a piece of fun 

To see the sweltered cattle run 

With uncouth gallop through the night, 

Scared by the red and noisy light ! 

By the light of his own blazing cot 

Was many a naked Rebel shot : 

The house-stream met the flame and hissed, 

While crash ! fell in the roof, I wist, 

On some of those old bed-rid nurses, "'^ 

That deal in discontent and curses. 

Who bade you do 't ? 


The same ! the same ! 
Letters four do form his name. 


He let me loose, and cried, Halloo ! 
To him alone the praise is due. 


He let us loose, and cried Halloo ! 
How shall we yield him honour due ? 


Wisdom comes with lack of food, 
ril ;.,'naw. Fll j^jnaw the multitude, 
Till the cup of rage o'erhrim : 
Tiioy shall seize him and his brood — 

They shall tear him limb from limb ! 


thankless beldames and untrue ! 
And is this all that you can do 

For him, who did so much for you ? 
Ninety months he, by my troth ! 
Hath richly catered for you both ; 
And in an hour woukl you repay 
An eight years' work ? — Away ! Away ! 

1 alone am faith f\d ! I 
C'iint; to him cxfrla-^tiiigly. 





on her recovery from a fever 
[Miss Lavinia Poole] 

Why need I say, Louisa dear ! 
How glad I am to see you here, 

A lovely convalescent ; 
Risen from the bed of pain, and fear, 

And feverish heat incessant. 

The sunny Showers, the dappled Sky, 
The little Birds that warble high. 

Their vernal loves commencing. 
Will better welcome you than I 

With their sweet influencing. 

Believe me, while in bed you lay, "^ 

Your danger taught us all to pray : 

You made us grow devouter ! 
Each eye looked up and seemed to say, 

How can we do without her ? 

Besides, what vexed us worse, we knew 
They have no need of such as you 

In the place where you were going : 
This World has angels all too few, 

And Heaven is overflowing ! 




p<^ r)^ \^> 

ft ^\ 




The Frost performs its secret ministry, 
UnheljK'd by any wind. The owlet's cry 
Came loud — and hark, again ! loud as before. 
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest. 
Have left me to that solitude, which suits 
Abstruser musings : save that at my side 
My cradled infant slumbers peacefully . 
'Tis calmjudced ! so calm, that it disturbs 
\And ve.xcs meditation with its strange 
L\nd c.vtremc silcntncss. Sea, hill, and wood. '" 

This populous village ! Sea, and hill, and wood, 
With all the numberless goings on of life, 
IrKuldiliLc as drcanj s ! the thin blue flame 
Lies on my low bvnnt fire, and quivers not ; 
Only that film, which fluttered on the grate, 
Still flutters there, the sole uuqniiitJlimg. 
Methinks, its motion in th is hu s h of natur e 
Gives it dim sympathies with me who live. 
Making it a companionable form, 

Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit • 

By its own mood interprets, everywhere 
Echo or mirror seeking of itself, 
And makes a toy of Thought. 

But oh ! how oft ! 

How oft, at school, with most believing mind, 
Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars, 
To watch that fluttering s/rinij^cr ! and as oft 
With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt 
Of my sweet birthplace, and the old church-tower. 
Whose bells, the poor man's only nuisic, rang 
From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day, 
So sweetly, that they stined and haunted me 
With a wild plexsme. fallinj ^n mi ne ear 
MoSQI^ F af t i cu tgiii:^ouuJ so7~t 1 1 i u'es to come ! 
So ga/edl. till Uie soothing things I dreamt 
Lvflled me to sli'i'p. and sleep |)roh)ngeJ my dreains ! 
And so I brooded ;U1 the following morn, 


10 . 



Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye 

Fixed with mock study on my swimming book : 

Save if the door half opened, and T snatched, 

A hastyiglance, and still my h^artleapedjip, *" 

For still I hoped to see the stranger's face, 

Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved, 

My play-mate when we both were clothed alike ! 

Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side, 
Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm. 
Fill up the interspersed vacancies 
And momentary pauses of the thought ! 
Mv Babe so beautiful ! it thrills my heart 
With tejider gladness, thus to look at thee, 
And think that thou shalt learn far other lore ^° 

And in far other scenes ! For I was reared 
In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim. 
And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars. ~" 

(But ihou, my babe ! shalt wander like a breeze \ 
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags 
Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds," 
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores 
And mountain crags : so shalt thou see and hear 
j The lovely shapes and sounds intelligiblfi / 
I Of that eternal language, which tjiy God /- ^" 

Utters, who from eterhTty doth teach 
Himself in all, and all things in himself. 
Great universal Teacher ! he :\hall mould 
" [Thy spirit, and by giving make it .ask^ ' / 

l" Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee, 
Whether the Summer clothe the general earth 
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing 
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch 
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch 
Smokes in the sun-thaw ; whether the eave-drops fall ''' 
Heard only in the trances of the blast,, 
Or if the secret ministry of Frost 
Shall hang them up in silent icicles, 
Qu jetly shining to the quiet M oo'n. 



Stranger ! whose eyes a look of pity show, 

Say, will you hsten to a tale of woe ? 

A tale in no unwonted horrors dressed ; 

Hut sweet is i)ity to an aged breast. 

This voice did falter with old age before ; 

Sad recollections make it falter more. 

Beside the torrent and beneath a wood 

High in these Aljxs my summer cottage stood ; 

One daughter still remained to cheer my way, 

'I'lic ovt'ning-star of Life's declining day; *° 

Duly she hied to till her milking-])ail, 

Ere shout of herdsman rang from cliff or vale ; 

When she rcturn'd, before the summer shiel, 

On the fresh giass she spread the dairy meal : 

Just iis the snowy peaks began to lose 

In glittering silvxr lights their rosy hues. 

Singing in wood or bounding o'er the lawn 

No l)litlier creature hail'd the early dawn ; 

And if I spoke of hearts by pain oppress'd 

When every friend is gone to them that rest, ^" 

Or of old men that leave, when they expire, 

Daughters that should have perished with their sire — 

Leave them to toil all day, through paths unknown, 

And house at night behind some sheltering stone — 

Impatient of the thought, with lively cheer 

She broke half-clos'd tlie tasteless tale severe. 

She play'd with fancies of a gaj-er hue, 

Iinamour'd of the scenes her icislus drew ; 

Aiul oft she prattUil with an eager tongue 

Of promis'd ]oys that would not loiter long, ^" 

Till with her tearless eyes so bright and fair 

She seemeil to see them realised in air ! 

In fancy oft, within some suiuiy dell. 

Where never wolf should howl or tempest yell, 

She built a little lu)me of joy anil rest, 

And liU'il it with the friends whom she loved best ; 

She nam'd the inmates of her fancied cot, 

And gave to each his own |x»culiar lot, 


Which with our httle herd' abroad should roam, 

And which should tend the dairy's toil at home ; '^^ 

And now the hour approach'd which should restore 

Her lover from the wars, to part no more. 

Her whole frame flutter' d with uneasy joy ; 

I long'd myself to clasp the valiant boy ; 

And though I strove to calm hey eager mood. 

It was my own sole thought in solitude. 

I told it to the Saints amid my hymns — 

For ! you know not on an old man's limbs 

How thrillingly the pleasant sunbeams play 

That shine upon his daughter's wedding-day. s" 

I hoped that those fierce tempests soon to rave 

Unheard, unfelt around my mountain grave, 

Not undelightfuUy would break her rest, 

While she lay pillow'd on her lover's breast, 

Or join'd his pious prayer for pilgrims driven 

Out to the mercy of the winds of heaven. 

Yes ! now the hour approach'd that should restore 

Her lover from the wars to part no more. 

Her thoughts were wild, her soul was in her eye. 

She wept and laughed as if she knew not why ; "'' 

And she had made a song about the wars. 

And sang it to the sun and to the stars ! 

But while she look'd and listen' d, stood and ran. 

And saw him plain in every distant man, 

By treachery stabb'd on Nansy's murderous day, 

A senseless corse th' expected husband lay, — 

A wounded man who met us in the wood 

Heavily ask'd her where my cottage stood, 

And told us all ; she cast her eyes around 

As if his words had been but empty sound ; '° 

Then look'd to Heaven, like one that would deny 

That such a thing could be beneath the sky. 

Again he ask'd her if she knew my name, 

And instantly an anguish wrench'd her frame, 

And left her mind imperfect. No delight 

Thenceforth she found in any cheerful sight. 

Not even in those time -haunted wells and groves, 

Scenes of past joy and birthplace of her loves. 

If to her spirit any sound was dear 


'Twas the deep moan that si)oke the tempest near, **• 

Or sif^'hs whicli chasms of icy vales outbreathe 

Sent Irom the dark, imi)rison'd floods beneath. 

She wander'd np the crag antl down the slope, 

But not, as in her happy days of hope. 

To seek the churning-plant of sovereign power 

That grew in clefts and bore a scarlet flower. 

She roam'd without a purpose, all alone, 

Thro' higli grey vales unknowing and unknown. 

Kind-hearted stranger ! patiently you hear 
A tedious tale : I thank you for that tear : °" 

May never other tears o'ercloud your eye 
Than those which gentle Pity can su})ply ! 
Did you not mark a towering convent hang 
Where the huge rocks with sounds of torrents rang ? 
Even yet, methinks, its spiry tunets swim 
Amitl yon i)urplo gloom ascentling dim I 
For thither oft would my poor child rei)air 
To ease her soul by jicnitenco and jirayer. 
I knew that i)eace at good men's prayers returns 
Home to the contrite heart of him that mourns, '•• 

And checked her not ; and often there she found 
.•\ timelv ]iallet when the evening frown'd. 
And there 1 trusteil that my child would light 
On shelter and on food, one dreadful night. 
When there was uproar in the element, 
;\nd slu' was absent. To my rest I went ; 
I thouglit her safe, yet often did I wake, 
And felt my very heart within me ache. 

No daughter near me, at this very door 
Next morn I listened to the dying roar. 
.\l)()ve, bi'low, the prowling vulture wail'd. 
And down tin- cliffs the heavy vajiour sail'd. 
l'l> by till' wide-spread waves in fury torn 
Homestalls and pines along the vale were borne. 
The Dalt'^men in thick crowds appeared below, 
fleanng the o'lMwhelm'd with hills of snow. 
.'\t times to the prouil gust's ascending swell 
A pack of bhuulhounds flung their doleful yell : 




For after nights of storm that dismal train 

The pious convent sends, with hope humane ^-" 

To find some outstretched man — perchance to save, 

Or give, at least, that last good gift, a grave ! 

But now a gathering crowd did I survey 

That slowly up the pasture bent their way ; 

Nor could I doubt but that their care had found 

Some pilgrim in th' unchannelled torrent drown'd. 

And down the lawn I hastened to implore 

That they would bring the body to my door ; 

But soon exclaim' d a boy, who ran before, 

" Thrown by the last night's waters from their bed 

Your daughter has been found, and she is dead ! " 


The old man paus'd. May he who, sternly just. 
Lays at his will his creatures in the dust — 
Some ere the earliest buds of hope be blown, 
And some when every bloom of joy is flown — 
May he the parent to his child restore 
In that unchanging realm where Love reigns ever-more. 

NiciAS Eryth^us. 




Underneath a huge oak tree 

There was of swine a huge company. 

That grunted as they crunched the mast. 

For that was ripe, and fell full fast. 

Then they trotted away, for the wind grew high : 

One acorn they left, and no more might you spy. 

Next came a Raven, that liked not such follv : 

He belonged, they did say, to the witch Melancholy ! 

Blacker was he than blackest jet. 

Flew low in the rain, and his feathers not wet. ^° 

He picked up the acorn and buried it straight 

By the side of a river both deep and great. 


Where then did the Raven go ? 
He went high and low, 
Over hill, over dale, did the black Raven go. 
Many Autumns, many Springs 
Travelled he* with wandering wings : 
Many summers, many Winters — 
1 can't tell half his adventures. 

At length he came back, and with him a She, 2" 

And the acorn was grown to a tall oak tree. 

They built them a nest in the topmost bough, 

And young ones they had, and were happy enow. 

But soon came a woodman in leathern guise, 

His brow, hke a pent-house, hung over his eyes. ' 

He'd an axe in his hand, not a word he spoke. 

Hut with many a hem ! and a sturdy stroke. 

At length he brought down the poor Raven's own oak. 

His young ones were killed ; for they could not depart. 

And their mother did die of a broken heart. ^^ 

The boughs from the trunk the woodman did sever ; 
Antl they floated it down on the course of the river. 
They sawed it in planks, and its bark they did strip, 
Antl with this tree and others they made a good shiji. 
The shij), it was launched ; but in sight of the land 
Such a storm there did rise as no ship could withstand. 
It bulged on a rock, and the waves rushed in fast : 
Rountl and round flew the raven, and cawed to the 

He heard the last shriek of the perishing souls — 
See ! see ! o'er the to})mast the mad water rolls ! *° 

Right glad was the Raven, and off he wont fleet, 
And Death riding home on a cloud he did meet. 
And he thanked him again and again for this treat : 

They had taken his all, and Revenge it \v.\s sweet ! 


* Soventi'cn or ciRhtt'cn years ago, an artist of some celebrity so mucli jileased witli this (lojj;Kt'ri'l. ho ainusoil liiniscif 
witli the tliDii^lit of iiuikiiij; a Child s riclure lkK>k of it; luit he i 
could not hit on a picture for these four lines. I suggested a round- I 
about with lour seats, ami the four seasons, as children, with f 
Time for the show man. -NoTic : Sibylline Lravrs. 1S17, p. vii. 











ATniidnight_by_t2ie_stream I roved, 
To forget the -iogm I loved. 
Image of Lewti ! from my mind 
Depart ; for Lewti is not kind. 

The Moon was high, the moonhght gleam 

And the shadow of a star 
Heaved upon Tamaha's stream ; 

But the rock shone brighter far, 
The rock half sheltered from my view 
By pendent boughs of tressy yew — 
So shines my Lewti 's forehead fair. 
Gleaming through her sable hair. 
Image of Lewti ! from my mind 
Depart ; for Lewti is not kind. 

I saw a cloud of palest hue, 

Onward to the Moon it passed ; 
Still brighter and more bright it grew, 
With floating colours not a few. 
Till it reached the Moon at last : 


214 LEWTI 

Then the cloud was wholly bright, -" 

With a rich and amber light ! 
And so with many a h()])e I seek, 

And with .such joy 1 hnd my Lcwti ; 
And even so my pale wan cheek 

Drinks in as deep a flush of beauty ! 
Nay, treacherous image ! leave my mind, 
If Lcwti never will be kind. 

The little cloud — it floats away, 

Away it goes ; away so soon — 
Alas ! it has no power to stay : ^" 

Its hues are dim, its hues are grey — 

Away it passes from the Moon ! 
How mournfully it seems to fly, 

Ever fading more and more. 
To joyless regions of the sky — 

And now 'tis whiter than before ! 
As white as my poor cheek will be, 

When, Lcwti ! on my couch I lie, 
A dying man for love of thee. 
Nay, treacherous image ! leave my mind — ■*" 
And yet, thou did'st not look unkind. 

1 saw a vapour in the sky. 

Thin, and white, and vcrv high ; 
I ne'er beheld so thin a cloud : 

Perhaps the In'cezes that can fly 

Now below and now abo\-e, 
Have snatched aloft the lawnv shroud 

Of huly fair — that died iov love. 
For maids, as well as youths, liave perished 
From fruitless love too fondly cherished. '" 

Nay, treacherous image ! leave my mind — 
For Lcwti never will l)e kind. 

HusliJ—miiJiecdless feet. from uuiler 
SliiLthe cjQimbliug banks^Ior ever : 

Like echoes to a distant tlumder, 
Tiiey phmge into the gentle river. 

The river-swans have heard my tread. 

And startle from their reedy bed. 


O beauteous Birds ! metliinks ye measure 
Your movements to some heavenly tune ! 

beauteous Birds ! 'tis such a pleasure 
To see you move beneath the Moon, 

1 would it were your true delight 
To sleep by day and wake all night. 

I know the place where Lewti lies, 
When silent night has closed her eyes : 

It is a breezy jasmine- bower, 
The Nightingale sings o'er her head : 

Voice of the Night ! had I the power 
That leafy labyrinth to thread, 
And creep, like thee, with soundless tread, 
I then might view her bosom white 
Heaving lovely to my sight. 
As these two swans together heave 
On the gently swelling wave. 

Oh ! that she saw me in a dream. 
And dreamt that I had died for care ! 

A ll pale andwasted I would^seem , 
Yetjaii ^ withal, a s-a.pirits_are ! 

I'd die indeed, if I might see 

Her bosom heave, and heave for me ! 

Soothe, gentle image ! soothe my mind ! 

To-morrow Lewti may be kind. 







n 'K^ 





Ye Clouds ! that far al)0vc me float and jiauso, 

Whose pathless march no mortal may controul ! 

Ye Ocean-Waves ! that, whcrcsoe'er }e roll, 
Yield homage only to eternal laws ! 
Ye Woods ! that listen to the ni|::;ht-l)ird's singing. 

Miilway the smooth and perilous slope reclined, 
Save when your own iin por[o us branches swinging 

Have made a solemn music ot the wind ! 
Where, like a man beloved of Goil, 
Through glooms, wliich never woodman trod, 

How oft, pursuing fancies holy, 
My moDnlight way o'er flowering weeds I wound, 

Inspireil, beyond the guess of folly, 
By each ijide^li^^ie and wikl unconciuerable sound 
O ye loud~^\aA'Cs ! and 0'yt?T'orests high I 

And () ye Cloutls that far above me soareil I 
Thou rising Sun ! thou blue rejoicing Sky ! 

Yea, cveix^*''"- ^ ^*'^^^ ^'^ and will bc-t ix'c ! 
Bear witness for me, wheresoe vx ye be. 
With what deep worship I have still atlored 
The spir it of divinest Liber tw 


When France in wrath h er iziantdim bs upiiLared. 

And with that oath, which smote Air, l{arth. and Sea. 
Stampeil her strong foot and said she would be free. 
Hear witness for mc, how I hoped and feared ! 
With what a joy my lofty grat illation 

I'nawed I sang, amid a slavish band : 
And when to whelm the disenchanted nation, 
Like fiends embattled by a wizard's wanil, 

The Monarchs marcheil in evil day, ^^ 

And Britain joined the dire array ; 
Though dear iier shores and circling ocean, 
Though many friendships, many youthful loves 




Had swoln the patriot emotion 
And flung a magic light o'er all her hills and groves ; 
Yet still my voice, unaltered, sang^lefcat 

To all that brave dthejtvrant-guelling lance, 
A nd shame too lo ng^delayed^nd vaTn ret reatj 
For ne'er, O Liberty ! with partial aim 
I dimmed thy light or damped thy holy flame ; ^ ' 

But blessed the paeans of delivered France, 
And hung my head and wept at Britain's name. 


" And what," I said, " though Blasphemy's loud 
scream ^ 

With that sweet music of deliverance strove T 
Though all the fierce and drunken passions wove \ 
A dance more wild than e'er was maniac's dream P 
Ye storms, that round the dawning east assembled,' 
The sun was rising, though ye hid his light ! " 
And when, to soothe my soul, that hoped and 

trembled, ' - 

The dissonance ceased, and all seemed calm and bright ; ^° 
When France her front deep-scarred and gory - 
Concealed with clustering wreaths of glory ; 

When, insupportably advancing, ^ 
Her arm made mockery of the warrior's ramp ; 

While timid looks of fury glancing, 
Domestic-treason, crushed beneath her fatal stamp, 

Writhed like a wounded dragon in his gore ; 

Then I reproached my fears that would not flee ; 

" And soon," I said, "shall Wisdoraieach her lore 
InJ;heTQWLhuts^iiLJJiem4liafT^ and groan !s^ ^" 

And, conquering by her happiness alone, - 
Shall FrOTcg^comp^rthOiatk^^ to be free,>v 

Till Love and Joy look round, and call the ^^arth their 



Forgive me. Freedom ! O forgive those dreams ! 
I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament. 
From bleak Helvetia's icy caverns sent — 

I hear thy groans upon her blood-stained streams ! 



Heroes, that for your peaceful country j)erished, 
An* 1 _\(i_tliat , fleeing, spot_your mountain-snows 

W'itii b|eeding\\Hnnias ; torgivc lue, llial 1 cherished '" 
One thougliT that everTBlessed your cruel foes ! 

To scatter rage, and traitorous guilt, 

Where Peace her jealous homo liad built ; 
A patriot-race to disinherit 
Of all that made their stormy wilds so dear ; 

And with inexpiable sjiirit 
To taint the bloodless heedom of the mountaineer — 
O France, that mockcst Heaven, adulterous, blind, 

And ])atriot only in pernicious toils ! 
Are tluse tliy boasts, Champion of human kind ? 

To mix with Kin{;s in the low lust of s way. 
V i:ll in tin .' jnuu rmd slumiJ_he jnur(h iuii^ prey — 
To insult the shrine of Liberty- witli simh Is 

Fr om freemen torn : to trnipt .md h) be tray > 



The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain, 
^by'i^s \\v Ihrir j 2>^'n conipul- iion ! In mad game 
They l»uiNt their manacles and wear the name 

Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain ! 
O Liberty ! with profitless endeavour 
Ha\-e I pursued thee, many a weary hour ; 

Hut thou nor swell'st the victor's strain, Qoreyer 
Dids t breathc _t jiv sou l in forms of human jiower. , 
"'Alike fiom all, ho\ve*lM Ihey jH'aise thee; " , 
(Nor prayer, nor boastful name tlelays thee) 

Alike from Priestcraft's harpy minions, 
And factious Hlasphemy's obscencr slaves, 
Th ou s{iee(Ust on thysul2tle pinions. 
The j^iiid r ()f Tiomeless wTncTsTaiuT iTla\mate_of the wave 
And tTTrif 1 leli thee ! —on tFat sea< IHTs ve rge , 

\Vh()si< |)ines, scarce travelleil by the breeze above, '"" 
Had made one murmur with the distant surge ! 
Yes, while I stood and gazed, my temples hare, 
And shot my being through earth, sea and air, 
Possessing all things with Intt^nsest love, 
^ O Liberty ! my spirit lilt thet- there. 

* - 1798. 



-1; M ■ 



A GR EENand s ilent spot, amid the^ hills, 
A small and silent dell ! O'er stiller place 
No singing sky-lark ever poised himself. 
The hills are heathy, save that swelling slope, 
Which hath a gay and gorgeous covering on, 
All golden with the never-bloomless furze, 
Which now blooms most profusely : but the dell, 
Bathed by the mist, is fresh and dehcate 
As vernal corn-field or tjiejinripe flax, 
\\^ten-,-±hrQughJis half^-transparen^^talfey-at eve. 
The , level Sunshine glimm ers with green light. 






Oh ! 'tis a quiet spirit-healing nook ! 

Whirh all, methinks, would love ; but chiefly he, 

The hunil)le man, who, in his youthful years, 

Knew just so much of folly, as had made 

His early manhood more securely wise ! 

Here he'mif;ht he on fern or withered heath, 

While from the singing-lark (that sings unseen 

The minstrelsy that Solitude loves best,) 

And from the Sun, and from the breezy Air, ^o 

Sweet inthuMiccs trembled o'er his frame ; 

And he, with many feelings, many thoughts, 

Made up a meditative joy, and found 

Reli gious meaninizs in the for ms of natu re ! 

And so. his senses gradually wrajiped 

In a half sleep, he dreams of better worlds. 

And dreaming hears thee still, O singing-lark, 

That singest like an angel in the clouds ! 


God ! it is a melancholy thing 
For such a man, who would full fain preserve 
His soul in calmness, yet perforce must feel 
For all his human brethren — O my Cioil ! 
It weighs upon the heart, that he must think 
Vy' What uproar and what strife may now be stirring 
■^ This way or that way o'er these silent hills — 
Invasion, and the thunder and the shout. 
And all the crash of onset ; fear and rage. 
And undetermined conflict — even now, 
ICven now, juMchance, and in his native isle : 
Carnage and groans beneath this blessed Sun ! *° 

W^ljiay e of ft-nde d. Oh ! rnv jzountr ymen ! 
I NN'tHKuiiLAillClldj^iLvcry grievously. 
An d been inosj ^ tyrannous. From east to west 
A groan of accusation pierces Heaven ! 
The wretched plead against us ; multitudes *' 
Countless and \ehenient, the Sons of Ciod, 
Our brethren ! Like a cloud that travels on, 
Steamed up from Cairo's swamps of pestilence, 
ICven so, my countrymen ! have we gone forth 
And borne to distant tribes slavery and pangs, ^" 

And, deadlier far, our vices, whose deep taint 


With slow perdition murders the whole man, 

His body and his soul ! Meanwhile, at home, 

All individual dignity and power 

Engulfed in Courts, Committees, Institutions, 

Associations and Societies, 

A vain, speech-mouthing, speech-reporting Guild, 

One Benefit-Club for mutugl flatte ry, 

\VeJi ave drunk up, demu re_as at a grace, 

PoU utions from the br im mmg cup of wealth ; 

Contemptuous of all honourable rule, 

Yet bartering freedom and the poor man's life 

For gold, as at a market ! The sweet words 

Of Christian promise, words that even yet 

Might stem destruction, were they wisely preached, 

Are muttered o'er by men, whose tones proclaim 

How flat and wearisome they feel their trade : 

Rank scoffers some, but most jto o indol ent 

To deem them falsehoods or toTcnow their truth. 

Oh ! blasphemous ! the Book of Life is made '° 

A sugerstitiousJnstrument, on which 

We gabble o'er the oaths we mean to break ; 

For all must swear — all and in every place. 

College and wharf, council and justice-court — ' 

All, all must swear, the briber and the bribed. 

Merchant and lawyer, senator and priest. 

The rich, the poor, the old man and the young ; 

All, all make up one scheme of perjury. 

That f aith doth ree l ; the very name of God 

Sounds hke a i ugglej;^ charm ; and, bold with joy, ^° 

Forth from hisclafk and lonely hiding-place, / 

(Portentous sight !) the owlet Atheism, h ii • 

Sailin g^on obscen ejmngs athwart the n oon, M/ '^'^ *■ "^ '^ 

DxQpiiis_bluerfnn^3IirdSi__Md^^ close, 

Andliiooting^ at the^orious SiuL-in Heaven, 

Cries out, " Where is it ? 


Thankless too for peace, 
(Peace long preserved by fleets and perilous seas) 
Secure from actual warfare, we have loved Uj (A IT 

To swell the war-whoop, passionale-ioa: war ! 
Alas ! for ages ignorant of all 



Its ghastlier workings, (famine or blue plague, 
Battle, or siege, or flight through wintry-snows,) 
We, this whole people, have been clamorous 
For war and bloodshed ; animating sports, 
The which we pay for as a thing to talk of. 
Spectators and not combatants ! No guess 
Anticipative of a wrong unfelt, 
No speculation or contingency, 
Howevi'r dim and vague, too vague and dim 
To yield a justifying cause ; and forth, *°° 

(Stuffed out witii big preamble, holy names, 
And adjurations of the God in Heaven,) 
We send our mandates for the certain death 
y Of thousands and ten thousands ! Boys and girls, 
■ ^ And women, that would groan to see a child 
/ Pull off an insect's leg, all read of war, 
' The best amusement for our morning meal ! 
Tl iL- i)(>or wre tQh, who has lear n t.lLi:a_only prayers 
I moiu c urses, who kno ws sca rcely worcTs enough 
To asirrrTSTessTng from hi s fleave nlvj^"^Ker, ^*" 

IVTomcsjiJimMit ])hraseman, absolute 
A iiddi!clinIcaIIinISi3QneranJ3^ , 
And all our daintxterrns^for-ir^vtHeide ; 
\T('i7ns which we trundle smoothly o'er our tongues 
Like mere abstractions, emi>ty sounds to which 
We join no feeling and attach no form ! 
As if till' soldier died without a wound ; 
As if tlie fibres of this godlike frame 
Were gored without a pang ; as if the wretch, 
^Who fell in battle, doing bloody deeds, '-" 

Passed off to Heaven, translated and not killed ; — 
As though he had no wife to pine for him. 
No God to judge him ! Therefore, evil days 
Are coming on us, O my countr\nien ! 
And what if all-avenging Providence, 
Strong and retributive, should make us know 
The meaning of our words, force us to feel 
The desolation and the agony 
Ul our lifirt' doings ! 

S [)are us yet a^ iile. 
FaUux-'UiU^iod ! Oh ! spare rts' yet awhile ! '^'' 


Oh ! let not English women drag their flight 
Fainting beneath the burthen of their babes, 
Of the sweet infants, that but yesterday fc*-4 
Laughed at the breast ! Sons, brothers, hu sbands, all 
Who ever gazed with fondness on the forms 
Whrclr^r ew up w 44h-you round the same fire-side, 
And allwho ever h^ard the sabbath -bells 
Withpu Tthe in fidel's scorn, make~yourselves pure ! 
StandTorth ! 5e"meirt~- rcp c l an impiou s foe, 
Impious and false, a^hght vet cru el race, ^*" 

Who laugh away all virTiie, minghng mirth 
With deeds of murder ; and still promising 
F reedo m, themselves too "sensual t o be f ree, 
Poison Life's amities, arid cheaf the heart 
Of Faith and quiet Hope, and all that soothes 
And all that lifts the spirit ! Stand we forth ; 
Render them back upon the insulted ocean. 
And let them toss as idly on its waves 
As the vile sea-weed, which some mountain-blast 
Swept from our shores ! And oh ! may we return ^^° 
Not with a drunken triumph, but with fear. 
Repenting of the wrongs with which we stung 
So fierce a foe to frenzy ! 

I have told, 
O Britons ! O my brethren ! I have told 
M ost hit tei^_truth, but without bitterness. 
Nor deem my zeal or factious or mis-timed ; 
For never can true courage dwell with them, 
Who, playing tricks with conscience, dare not look 
At their own vices. We have been too long 
Dupes of a deep delusion ! S ome,_ belike, ^^° 

Groanin g with restless enmit y^^ expect 
Al Lchange fronTcHange of ronstituted power ; 
As HaGovernmen^iia^^ robe, 

On ^hich ouFvTce'a nd wretchedness were tagged 
Lik e fancy-point s and fringe s^Avith the robe 
P ulled off at p leasure. Fondly these attach 
A TadicaTcausatioh to a few 
Poor drudges of chastising Providence, 
Who borrow all their hues and qualities 


From our own folly and rank \fickedness, *"" 

Which gave them birth and nursed them. Others, mean- 
Dote with a mad idolatry ; and all 
Who will not fall before their images, ^ 

And yield them worshij), they are enemies 
Even of their country ! 

Such have I been deemed — 

But, O dear Britain ! O my Mother Jsle ! 

Needs must thou prove a name most dear and holy 

To me, a son, a brother, and a friend, 

A husband, and a father ! who revere 

All bonds of natural love, and iind them all ^'*° 

Within the limits of thy rocky shores. 

O native Britain ! O my Mother Isle ! 
k How shouklst thou prove aught else but dear, and holy 
\To me, who from thy lakes and mountain-hills. 

Thy clouds, thy quiet dales, thy rocks and seas, 

Have drunk in all my intellectual life. 

All sweet sensations, all ennobling thoughts. 

All adoration of the God in Nature, 

All lovely and all honourable things, 

Whatever makes this mortal spirit feel " *'° 

The joy and greatness of its future being ? 

There lives nor form nor feeling in my soul 

Un])orro\ved from my country. Q divine 
, 1 Andjjc-auteous island ! tho u luist been my sole 

I And most magni ficent tcm j^e. jji tlic Avhich 

I I w.jjk with aw(\ and sj ufj mv~siately songs, 
/ Loving the God TTiat nuid e me ! 

May my fears, 
My filial fear^, be vain ! and may the vaunts 
And menace of the vengeful eneniy 
Pass like the gust, that roared and died away ^""' 

In the distant tree : which heard, and only heard 
III this low (K'll, bowed not the delicate grass. 

liut now the gentle dew-fall sends aliroad 
Thf fruit -like perfume of the golden furze • 


The light has left the summit of the hill, 
Though still a sunny gleam lies beautiful, 
Aslant the ivied beacon. Now farewell. 
Farewell, awhile, O soft and silent spot ! 
On the green sheep-track, up the heathy hill, 
Homeward I wind my way ; and lo ! recalled -^"^ 

From bodings that have well nigh wearied me, 
I find myself upon the brow, and pause 
Startled ! And after lonely sojourning 
In such a quiet and surrounded nook, 
This burst of prospect — here the shadowy Main. 
Dim tinted, there the mighty majesty 
Of that huge amphitheatre of rich 
And elmy Fields, seems like society — 
Conversing with the mind, and giving it 
A livelier impulse and a dance of thought ! 220 

And now, beloved Stowey ! I behold 
Thy church-tower, and, me thinks, the four huge elms 
Clustering, which mark the mansion of my friend ; 
And close behind them, hidden from my view, 
Is my own lowly cottage, where my babe 
And my babe's mother dwell in peace ! With light 
And quickened footsteps thitherward I tend, 
Remembering thee, O green and silent dell ! 
And grateful, that by Nature's quie tness "1 

A nd solitary musmgs, all my heart P" 

Is ^so ftened, and~made w rjrthy to indulge 1 

L ove7and the thoughtT th at yearn for human kind, i 




No cloud, no relique of the sunken day I, 
Distinguishes the West, no long thin shp |/ 
Of sullenJight, no obscure trembling hues. 
Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge ! 




You see the gliininer of tlie stream beneath, 

But heir no murmuring : it flows silently, 

O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still, 

A balmy night ! and though the stars be dim, 

Yet let us think upon the vernal showers 

That gladden the green earth, and we sliall find '" 

A j)leasure in the dimness of the stars. 

And hark ! the Nightingale begins its song, 

" Most musical, most melancholy " Bird ! * 

A melancholy Bird ? Oh ! idle thought ! 

In nature there is nothing melanclioly. 

But some night-wandering man, whose heart was 

With the remembrance of a grievous wrong, 

Or slow distemper, or neglected love, 

(And, so, poor Wretch ! filled all things with himself ! 

And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale -'' 

Of his own sorrow) he, and such as he. 

First named these notes a melancholy strain, 

And many a ]ioet echoes the conceit; — 
\ l\ l iiif^whu ha th be_en_j2uildimLIi P the rhy me 
|\\ ^en he had better fa ii_have stretched his limbs 
I Besjiio-a. biook-in n^oiSy-fofeSErdell^ 

By Sun or Mo on-liglit J k)_t_ho intluxes 

Of '^Tiaj^Ps and sovmds nnd shifting elements 

Surrcuiii^ri ng liis whole spirit^ of his song 

And ( ) f hislame I orge t i u 1 ! so his fame ^" 

Sliould share in Nature's immortality, 

A venerable thing ! and^) liis_song 

Should make all Nature luvelicr7and itself 

Be loved like. Nature ! But 'twill not bo so ; 

Arid~ybuths and maidens most poetical. 

Who lose the dcej-jening twilights of the spring 

In ball-rooms ancl hot theatres, they still 

* " Most musical, most mici.anciioi.y." Tins nass.i^c in 
Milton j)()sscssi;s nil cxccIUmkc far bniu-nor to tluit of mere ilf- 
siription. It is spoken in the charactir of the niohincholy man, 
and has therefore a dramatic propriety. The author makes this 
remark, to rescue himself froni the charge of liaving alhided with 
levity, to a hne in Milton : a charge tJian which none couM Iw 
more painful to him, e.xcept perhaps that of having ridiculed his 


Full of meek sj-inpathy must heave their sighs 
O'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains. 

My Friend, and thou, our Sister ! we have learnt *" 
A different lore : we may not thus profane 
Nature's sweet voices, always full of love 
And joyance ! 'Tis the meryy Nightingale 
That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates 
With fast thick warble his delicious notes, 
As he^were fearful that an April night • 
Wou ld ^e too short for him to utter forth 
His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul 
Of all its music ! 

And I know a grove 
Of large extent, hard by a castle huge, . ^* 

Which the great lord inhabits not ; . and so 
This grove is wild with tangling underwood, 
And the trim walks are broken up, and grass. 
Thin grass and king-cups grow within the paths. 
But never elsewhere in one place I knew 
So many Nightingales ; and far and near, 
In wood and thicket, over the wide grove. 
They answer and provoke each other's song, 
With skirmish and capricious passagings. 
And murmurs musical and swift jug jug. 
And one low piping Sound more sweet than all — 
Siirring the air with such an harmony, 
That should you close your eyes, you might almost / 
Forget it was not day ! On moon-ht bushes, / 

Whose dewy leaflets are but half disclosed, ' 

You may perchance behold them on the twigs, 
Their_bright^ bright eyes, their eye sjj oth brigh t and full , 
Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the shade 
Lights up her love-torch. 

A most gentle Maid, 
Who dwelleth in her hospitable home ^^ 

Hard by the castle, and. at latest eve 
(Even hke a Lady vowed and dedicate 
To something more than Nature in the grove) 



Glides through the pathways ; she know-s all their 
[\ That gentle Maid ! and oft a moment's space, 
l\What time the Moon was lost behind a cloud. 
' 'Hatli heard a })ause of silence ; till the Moon 
Emerging, hath awakened earth and sky 
Willi one sensation, and these wakeful Birds 
Have all hurst forth in Choral minstrelsy, "° 

As it some sudden {j;i1<' h:u1 ^w^j^t pt pnrp 

n hundrt-d airy harp s ! And she hath watched 
Many a nightingale perched giddily 
On blossomy twig still swinging from the breeze. 
And to that motion tune his wanton song. 
Like tipsy joy that reels with tossing head. 

Farewell, C) Warbler ! till to-morrow eve. 
Ami you, my friends ! farewell, a short farewell ! 
W'e have been loitering long and pleasantly, 
And now for our dear liomes. — That strain again ! *" 
Full fain it would delay me ! My dear babe. 
Who, capable of no articulate sound. 
Mars all things with his imitative lisp. 
How he wt)uld })lace his hand beside his ear. 
His little hand, the small forefmgor uji. 
And bid us listen ! And I deem it wise 
To make him Nature's play-mate. H e knows w ell 
Tlie e\ciiin'^>t:i r ; and once, when he awoke 
In most distressful mood (some inward ]>ain 
Had made up that strange thing, an infant's dream) ""' 
1 hurried with him to our orchard-i)lot. 
And he l)eheld the Moon, and, huslied at once, 
Susjiends his sobs, and laughs most silently, 
Willie his fair eyes, that swam with umlropped tears, 
Did glitter in the yellow mot)nbeam ! Well ! — 
It is a father's tale : Hut if that Heaven 
Should give me life, his chiklhood shall grow up 
Familiar with these songs, that with the night 
III' may associate joy ! Once more farewell. 
>weet Nightingale ! Once more, my friends ! farewell. "" 


O LEAVE the lily on its stem, 
O leave the rose upon the spray ; 
leave the elder-bloom, fair maids ! 
And listen to my lay. 

A cypress and a myrtle bough 
This morn around my harp you twined, 
Because it fashioned mournfully 
Its murmurs in the wind. 

And now a tale of Love and Woe, 
A woeful tale of Love I sing ; 
Hark, gentle maidens, hark ! it sighs 
And trembles on the string. 

But most, my own dear Genevieve, 
It sighs and trembles most for thee ! 
O come and hear the cruel wrongs 
Befel the dark Ladie. 

:): :j: :{: :f: 4: 



And now once more a tale of woe, 
A woeful tale of Love I sing ; 
For thee, my Genevieve ! it sighs, 
And trembles on the string. 

When liLst I sang the cruel scorn 
That crazed this bold and lovely Knight, 
And how he roamed the mountain-woods. 
Nor rested day or night ; 

I promised thee a sister tale 
Of man's perfidious cruelty ; 
Come. then, and hear what cruel wrong 
Befel the Dark Ladie. 



Benkath yon birdi witli >il\er bark. 
And boughs so jx^ndulous and fair. 
Till' brook falls scattered down the rock 
And all is mossy there ! 


And there upon the moss she sits, 
The Dark Ladie in silent pain ; 
The heavy tear is in her eye, 
And drops and swells again. • 


Three times she sends her little page 
Up the castled mountain's breast, 
If he might find the Knight that wears 
The Grifiin for his crest. 

The sun was sloping down the sky, 
And she had lingered there all day. 
Counting moments, dreaming fears — 
Oh wherefore can he stay ? 

She hears a rustling o'er the brook 
She sees far off a swinging bough ! 
" 'Tis He ! 'Tis my betrothed Knight ! 

Lord Faulkland, it is Thou ! " 20 

She springs, she clasps him round the neck, 
She sobs a thousand hopes and fears, 
Her kisses glowing on his cheeks 
She quenches with her tears. 

' ' My friends with rude ungentle words 
They scoff and bid me fly to thee ! 

give me shelter in thy breast ! 
O shield and shelter me ! 

" My Henry, I have given thee much, 

1 gave what I can ne'er recall, ^^ 
I gave my heart, I gave my peace, 

O Heaven ! I gave thee all." 

The Knight made answer to the Maid, 
While to his heart he held her hand, 
" Nine castles hath my noble sire. 
None statelier in the land. 


" The fairest one shall be my love s, 
The fairest castle of the nine ! 
Wait only till the stars peep out, 
The fairest shall be thine : *° 

" Wait only till the hand of eve 
Hath wholly closed yon western bars, 
And through the dark we two will steal 
Beneath the twinkling stars ! " — 

" The dark ? the dark ? No ! not the dark ? 
The twinkling stars ? How, Henry ? How ?" 
(O ("lOil I 'twas in the eye of noon 
He pledged his sacred vow ! 

And in the eye of noon my love 
Shall lead me from my mother's door. ^" 

Sweet boys and girls all clothed in white 
Strewing flowers before : 

lUit first the noddmg minstrels go 
With music meet for lordly bowers, 
The children next in snow-white vests, 
Strewing buds and llowers ! 

And then my love and I shall jiace, 
Mv jet black hair in pearly braids, 
Between our comely bachelors 

And blushing bridal maids.) '^" 




The first part of the following poem was written in the year 
one thousand seven hundred and ninety-seven, at Stowey in 
the county of Somerset. The second part, after my return 
from Germany, in the year one thousand eight hundred, at 
Keswick, Cumberland. Since the latter date, my poetic powers 
have been, till very lately, in a state of suspended animation. 
But as, in my very first conception of the tale, I had the whole 
present to my mind, with the wholeness, no less than with the 
lovehness of a vision ; I trust that I shall yet be able to embody 
in verse the three parts yet to come. 

It is probable, that if the poem had been finished at either 
of the former periods, or if even the first and second part had been 
published in the year 1800, the impression of its originality would 
have been much greater than I dare at present expect. But 
for this, I have only my own indolence to blame. The dates 
. " are mentiqned for the exclusive purpose of precluding charges 
JW^'df plagiarism or servile imitation from myself. For there is 
among us a set of critics, who seem to hold, that every possible 
•thought and image is traditional; who have no notion that 
there are such things as fountains in the world, small as well as 
great ; and who would therefore charitably derive every rill 
they behold flowing, from a perforation made in some other 
man's tank. I am confident, however, that as far as the present 
poem is concerned, the celebrated poets whose writings I might 
be suspected of having imitated, either in particular passages, 
or in the tone and the spirit of the whole, would be among the 
first to vindicate me from the charge, and who, on any striking 
coincidence ,would permit me to address them in tliis doggrel 
version of two monkish Latin hexameters : 

'Tis mine and it is likewise yours ; 
But an if this will not do ; 
Let it be mine, good friend ! for I 
Am the poorer of the two. 

I have only to add, that the metre of the Christabel is not, 
properly speaking, irregular, though it may seem so from its 
being founded on a new principle : namely, that of counting 
in each line the accents, not the syllables. Though the latter 
may vary from seven to twelve, yet in each line the accents 
will be found to be only four. Nevertheless this occasional 
variation in number of syllables is not introduced wantonly, 
or for the mere ends of convenience, but in correspondence with 
some transition in the nature of the imagery or passion. 

* To the edition of 1S16. 






IS the middle of night by the castle 

And the owls have awakened the 
crowing cock ; 

Tu — whit ! Til — whoo ! 

And hark, again ! the crowing cock. 

How drowsily it crew. 

Sir Leoline, the Baron rich,''^ p 

Hath a toothless mastiff bitch ; 

From her kennel beneath the rock 

She maketh answer to the clock, 

Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour ; 

Ever and aye, by shine and shower, y 

Sixteen short howls, not over loud ; \ 

Some say, she sees my lady's shroud. 1 

Is the night chilly and dark ? 
The night is chilly, but not dark. 
The thin gray cloud is spread on high, 
Ij ^ covers but not hides the sky . 
Tne~moon is behind, and^ithe full ; 1 
And yet she looks both small and dull.' 
The night is chill, the cloud is gray : 
'Tis a month before the month of May, 
And the Spring_comes_^lowly_u|)J;his way. 
The loveTyTaHyTChristabel, 
Whom her father loves so well. 
What makes her in the wood so late, 





A furlong from the castle gate ? 

She had dreaiTLs all yesternight 

Of her own betrothed knight ; 

And she in the midnight wood will j>ray 

For the weal of her lover that's far away. ^" 

She stole along, she nothing spoke, 
The sighs she heaved were soft and low, 

fUid naught was green upon the oak, 
^ut moss and rarest misletoc : 
Slie kneels beneath the huge oak tree, 
And in silence prayeth she. 

The lady sprang up suddenly. 

The lovely lady, Chris tabel ! 

It moaned as near, as near can l)e, 

Hut what it is, she cannot tell. — 

On the other side it seems to be, 

Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree 


The night is chill ; the forest bare : 
Is it the wintl that moaneth bleak ? 
Tiiere is not wind enough in the air 
To move away the ringlet curl 
From the lovely lady's cheek- 
There is not wind enough to twirl \ 
The one red leaf, the last of its clan J 
That (lances as often as dance it can. ^" 

Hanging so light, anil hanging so high, 
On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky. 


Hush beating heart of Christabel I 
Jesu, Maria, shield her well ' 
She folded her arms beneath her cloak. 
And stole to the other side of the oak. 

What sees she there ? | 

There she sees a damsel bright. 
Dressed in a silken robe ot white, 


thi:re she sees a damsel bkight, 
dressed in a silken ro;ie of white 


That shadowy in the moonlight shone : ■ ®" 

The neck that made that white robe wan, 

Her stately neck, and arms were bare ; 

Her blue- veined feet unsandal'd were, 

And wildly glittered here and there 

The gems entangled in her hair. 

I guess^ ^wasjrightfu l there to see 

.Qad^ o richly cl ad .as_she — - 

Beautiful exceedingly ! 


" Mary mother, save me now ! 

(Said Christabel,) And who art thou ? " 

The lady strange made answer meet, 

And her voice was faint and sweet : — 

" Have pity on my sore distress, - '/ 

I scarce can speak for weariness." 

" Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear ! " 

Said Christabel, " How camest thou here ? " 

And the lady, whose voice was faint and sweet, 

Did thus pursue her answer meet : — 

" My sire is of a noble line, 

And my name is Geraldine : ^^ 

Five warriors seized me yestermorn. 

Me, even me, a maid forlorn : 

They choked my cries with force and fright. 

And tied me on a palfrey white. 

The palfrey was as fleet as wind. 

And they rode furiously behind. 

They spurred amain, their steeds were white ; 

And once we crossed the shade of night. 

As sure as Heaven shall rescue me, 

I have no thought what men they be ; 

Nor do I know how long it is 

(For I have lain entranced I wis) 

Since one, the tallest of the five'. 

Took me from the palfrey's back, 

A weary woman, scarce alive. 

Some muttered words his comrades spoke ; 

He placed me underneath this oak ; 


He swore they would return with haste ; 

Whithtr they went I cannot tell — 

I lliouijht 1 heard, sonu' niinuti-s past, 

Soiuids as of a castK- lu-ll. 

Stretch lortli lli\' hand (thus ended she.) 

And help a wn-tclu'd maid to fU'c." 

Then Christahel stretched lorth lu-r luuul 

And comforted fair (ieraldinc : 

"() well. brij;ht dame! may you eonunand 

Tlu" si-rvice ol Sir Leoline; 



And gladly our stout chivalry 

Will he send forth and friends withal 

To guide and guard you safe and free ii" 

Home to your noble father's hall." 

She rose : and forth with steps they passed 

That strove to be, and wei'e not, fast. 

Her gracious stars the lady blest, 

And thus spake on sweet Christabel : 

'• All our household are at rest, 

The hall as silent as the cell ; 

Sir Leoline is weak in health, 

And may not well awakened be. 

But we will move as if in stealth, i-" 

And I beseech your courtesy. 

This night, to share your couch with me." 

They crossed the moat, and Christabel 

Took the key that fitted well ; 

A little door she opened straight, 

All in the middle of the gate ; 

The gate that was ironed within and without, 

Where an army in battle array had marched out. 

The lady sank, belike through pain, 

And Christabel with might and main '^^ 

Lifted her up, a weary weight, 

Over the threshold of the gate : 

Then the lady rose again. 

And moved, as she were not in pain. 

So free from danger, free from fear, 

They crossed the court : right glad they were. 

And Christabel devoutly cried, 

To the lady by her side, 

" Praise we the Virgin all divine 

Who hath rescued thee from thy distress ! " ^^" 

" Alas, alas ! " said Geraldine," 

" I cannot speak for weariness." 

So free from danger, free from fear. 

They crossed the court : right glad they were. 



Outside her kennel, the mastiff old 
Lay fast asleep, in moonshine cold. 
The mastiff old did not awake, 
.Yet she an angry moan did make ! 
lAnd what can ail the mastiff bitch ? 
T*Jever till now she uttered yell 
Beneath the eye of Christahel. 
Perhaps it is the owlet's scritch : 
For what can ail the mastiff bitch ? 


They jiassed the hall, that echoes still, 

Pass as lifjhtly as you will ! 

TJie brancis were flat, the brands were dying, 

Amid tJK'ir own white ashes lying ; ~" 

l-?ut when the lady jxissed. there came 

A tongue of light, a tit of flame ; 

And Cluistaln'l saw the lady's eye, 

And nothing else saw she thereby. 

Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline tall. 

Which hung in a murky old niche in the wall. 

() soltJN' tread, said Cluistnbel, 

My fatlier srldoni sleopeth well. 



Sweet Christahel her feet doth bare 
And jealous of the listening air 
They steal their way from stair to stair. 
Now in glinuner, and now in gloom, 
\ui\ now they pass the Baron's room. 
As still as death with stifled breath ! 
And now have reached her chamln'r door 
;\nd now doth (ieraldine press down 
The rushes ot the chamber floor. 


The moon shines dim in tlu> ojhmi air. 
And not a moonbeam enti-rs here. 
But they without its liglit can see 
The chamber carved so curiously, 
(";n\-ed with ligun>s strange and sweet. 
.Ml made out ot the car\-er's brain, 




For a lady's chamber meet : 

The lamp with twofold silver chain 

is fastened to an angel's feet. 

The silver lamp burns dead and dim ; 

But Christabel the lamp will trim. 

She trimmed the lamp, and made it bright, 

And left it swinging to and fro, 

While Geraldine, in wretched plight. 

Sank down upon the floor below. 

" O weary lady, Geraldine, ^'-"^ 

I pray you, drink this cordial wine ! 
It is a wine of virtuous powers ; 
My mother made it of wild flowers." 

" And will your mother pity me. 
Who am a maiden most forlorn ? " 
Christabel answered — " Woe is me ! 
She died the hour that I was born. 
I have heard the grey-haired friar tell. 
How on her death-bed she did say, 
That she should hear the castle bell ^^^ 

Strike twelve upon my wedding-day. 
. O mother dear ! that thou wert here ! " 
" I would," said Geraldine, "she were !" 

But soon with altered voice, said she — 

" Off, wandering mother ! Peak and pine ! 

T have power to bid thee flee." 

Alas ! what ails poor Geraldine ? 

Why stares she with unsettled eye ? 

Can she the bodiless dead espy ? 

And why with hollow voice cries she, -^° 

" Off, woman, off ! this hour is mine — 

Though thou her guardian spirit be, 

Off, woman, off ! 'tis given to me .'' 

Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side. 

And raised to heaven her eyes so blue — 

" Alas ! " said she, " this ghastly ride — 

Dear lady ! it hath wildered you ! " 



The lady wiped her moist cold brow. 
And faintly said, " 'tis over now ! " 

Again tiie wild-flower wine she drank 
Her fair large eyes 'gan glitter bright. 
And from the floor whereon she sank, 
The lofty lady stood upright ; 
She was most beautiful to see, 
/ Like a lady of a far countrce. 


And thus the lofty lady sjxike — 

" All they, who live in the upper sky. 

Do love you, holy Christabel ! 

And you love them, and for their sake 

And for the good which me befel, 

Even I in my degree will try, 

Fair maiden, to requite you well. 

Hut nt)w unrobe yourself ; for I 

Must pray, ere yet in bed I lie." 

Quoth Christabel, " So let it be ! " 
And as the huh- bade, did she. 
Her gentle limb-; ilid she undress, 
And lay down in her loveliness. 


I^ut through her brain of weal and woe 
So many thoviglits moved to and fro. 
That vain it were her lids to close ; 
So half-way from tin- bed she rose, 
And on her ilb>)w did recline 
To look at the latly Cieraldine. 

Heneath the lamp the lady bowed. 
And slowly rolled her eyes around; 
Then drawing in her breath aloud. 
Like one that shuddered, she unbound 
The cincture from beneath her breiist : 
Her silken lobe, and imuT \est. 
Dropped to her feet, and full in view. 
Behold ! her bosom and half her side — 




A sight to dream of, not to tell ! --^ 
O shield her ! shield sweet Christabel ! 


Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs : 

Ah ! what a stricken look was hers ! 

Deep from within she seems half-way 

To lift some weight with sick assay, 

And eyes the maid and seeks delay ; 

Then suddenly as one defied 2go 

Collects herself in scorn and pride, 

And lay down by the Maiden's side ! — 

And in her arms the maid she took, 

Ah wel-a-day ! 
And with low voice and doleful look 
These words did say : 

" In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell, 
Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabel ! 
Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to-morrow 
This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow ; "'*' 

But vainly thou warrest. 
For this is alone in 

Thy power to declare. 
That in the dim forest 

Thou heard'st a low moaning. 
And found' st a bright lady, surpassingly fair : 
And didst bring her home with thee in love and in 

To shield her and shelter her from the damp air." 


It was a Invelv siplit to sec 
The latly Christabel. when she 
Was praying at the old oak tree. 

Amid tlie jagged shadows 

Of niossv, leafless bouglis, 

Kneeling in the moonlight, 

To make her gentle vows ; 
Her slender jxdms together presst'd. 
Heaving sometimes on her breast ; 
Her face resigned to bliss or bale — 
Her face, oh call it fair not pale. 
And both blue eyes more bright than clear 
I*!ach a])()ut to have a tear. 



With open eyes (ah woe is me !) 
Ashx'p, and dreaming fearfully. 
Fearfully dreaming, yet, I wis, 




Dreaming that alone, which is — 

sorrow and shame ! Can this be she, 

The lady, who knelt at the old oak tree ? 

And lo ! the worker of these harms, 

That holds the maiden in her arms, 

Seems to slumber still and mild, ^"^ 

As a mother with her child. 

A star hath set, a star hath risen, 

O Geraldine ! since arms of thine 

Have been the lovely lady's prison. 

O Geraldine ! one hour was thine — 

Thou'st had thy will ! By tairn and rill, 

The night-birds all that hour were still. 

But now they are jubilant anew. 

From cliff and tower, tu — whoo ! tu — whoo ! 

Tu — whoo ! tu — whoo ! from wood and fell ! ^^^ 

And see ! the lady Christabel 

Gathers herself from out her trance ; 

Her limbs relax, her countenance 

Grows sad and soft ; the smooth thin lids 

Close o'er her eyes ; and tears she sheds — 

Large tears that leave the lashes bright ! 

And oft the while she seems to smile 

As infants at a sudden light ! 

Yea, she doth smile, and she doth weep, 

Like a youthful hermitess, ^^^ 

Beauteous in a wilderness. 

Who, praying always, prays in sleep. 

And, if she move unquietly, 

Perchance, 'tis but the blood so free," 

Comes back and tingles in her feet. 

No doubt, she hath a vision sweet. 

What if her guardian spirit 'twere, "^ 

What if she knew her mother near ? 

But this she knows, in joys and woes, 

T^iat saints will aid if men will call • ^^° 

For the blue sky bends over all ! 


\cn matin l)cll, the Baron saitli. 

Knt'Us u> back to a workl of ck-atli. 

IIr'Sc words Sir Leoline lirst saitl. 

W'lien he rose and found his lady dead : 

These words Sir Leohne will say. 

Manv a morn to his dyintj day! 

And hence the custom and law began. 

That still at dawn the sacristan. 

Who duly pulls the heavy bell, 

iMve and forty beads nuist tell, 

lU'tween each stroke — a warninc; knell. 
Which not a soul can choose but hear 
Imdih P.ralha Head t<i Wxndermere. 

SaithvJ^racy the bard. So let it knell ! 
And let the drowsy sacristan 
Still count as slowlv as he can ! 
There is no lack of such. I ween, 

\-^ wtll lill up the sjxace between. 

II l.ani,'dale Piki" and Witch's Lair. 
Auil Duni^eon-s^hvU so fouUv rent. 
With ropes of rock and bells of air 
rhn>' sinful sextons' fj;hosts are jKMit, 
Who all i^'ive back, one after t'other. 
The deatli-noti' to their livint,' brother; 
And olt too. b\- the knell offended. 
|u^t as their on(> ! two ! lhre(> ! is entleil, 
1 hf devil mocks the doletul tale 
With a merrv peal from Horrowilale. 





The air is still ! through mist and cloud ^^^ 

That merry peal comes ringing loud ; 

And Geraldine shakes off her dread, 

And rises lightly from the bed ; 

Puts on her silken vestments white, 

And tricks her hair in lovely plight. 

And nothing doubting of her spell 

Awakens the lady Christabel. 

" Sleep you, sweet lady Christabel ? 

I trust that you have rested well." 

And Christabel awoke and spied ^70 

The same who laid down by her side— 

O rather say, the same whom she 

Raised up beneath the old oak tree ! 

Nay, fairer yet ! and yet more fair ! 

For she belike hath drunken deep 

Of all the blessedness of sleep ! 

And while she spake, her looks, her air 

Such gentle thankfulness declare, 

That (so it seemed) her girded vests 

Grew tight beneath her heaving breasts. ^^° 

" Suxe J have sinned ! " said Christabel, 

" Now Heaven be praised if all be well ! " 

And in low faltering tones, yet sweet, 

Did she the lofty lady greet 

With such perplexity of mind 

As dreams too lively leave behind. 

So quickly she rose, and quickly arrayed 
TiexJiiaidien limbs, and having prayed j 
That He, who on the cross did groan. 
Might wash away her sins unknown, \ ^^^ 

She forthwith led fair -^raldine 
-To meet her sire. Sir Leoline. 

The lovely maid and the lady tall 
Are pacing both into the hall. 
And pacing on through page and groom 
Enter the Baron's presence room. 




The Baron rose, and while he pressed 
His gentle daughter to his breast, 
With cheerful wonder in his eyes 
The lady Geraldine espies, 
And gave such welcome to the same, 
As might beseem so bright a dame ! 
Hut when he heard the lady's tale, 
And when she told her father's name. 
Why waxed Sir Leoline so pale. 
Murmuring o'er the name again, 
Lord Roland de \'aux of Tryermaine ? 

, Alas ! they had been friends in youth ; 
But whispering tongues can poison truth ; 
And Constancy lives in realms above ; ^"' 

And Life is thorny ; and Youth is vain ; 
And to be wroth with one we love, 
Doth work like madness in the brain. 
And thus it chanced, as I divine, 
With Roland and Sir Leoline. 
Each spake words of high disdain 
And insult to his heart's best brother : 
They parted — ne'er to meet again ! 
But never either found another 
To free the hollow heart from paining — '-" 

They stood aloof, the scars remaining. 
Like cliffs which had been rent asunder ; 
A dreary sea now flows between ; — 
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder. 
Shall wlioUy do away, I ween, 
The marks of that which once hath been. 

Sir Leoline, a moment's space. 
Stood gazing on the damsel's face ; 
And the youthful Lord of Tryermaine 
Came back upon his heart again. 

O then the Baron forgot his age. 
His noble heart swelled high with rage ; 
He swore bv the wounds in Jesu's side. 
He would proclaim it far and wiile 




With trump and solemn heraldry, 

That they, who thus had wronged the dame. 

Were base as spotted infamy ! /J->-|-' 

" And if they dare deny the same, 

My herald shall appoint a week. 

And let the recreant traitors seek ^*" 

My tourney court — that there and then 

I may dislodge their reptile souls 

From the bodies and forms of men ! " 

He spake : his eye in lightning rolls ! 

For the lady was ruthlessly seized ; and he kenned 

In the beautiful lady the child of his friend ! 

And now the tears were on his face, 

And fondly in his arms he took 

Fair Geraldine, who met the embrace, 

Pxoloflgiftg44 with joyous look. *^° 

Which when she viewed, a vision fell 

Upun _the-SD_uJ of_ Christabel, 
/The visian_nLfear, the touch and^paln ! 
/ She shrunk and shuddered, and saw again — 
I (Ah, woe is me ! Was it for thee, 
I\ Thou gentle maid ! such sights to see ?) 

Again she saw that bosom old, 

Again she felt that bosom cold, 

And drew in her breath with a hissing sound : 

Whereat the Knight turned wildly round, ^^^ 

And nothing saw, but his own sweet maid 

With eyes upraised, as one that prayed. 

The touch, the sight, had passed away, 
And in its stead that vision blest, 
Which comforted her after-rest, 
While in the lady's arms she lay, 
Had put a rapture in her breast, 
And on her lips and o'er her eyes 
Spread smiles hke light ! 

With new surprise. 
" What ails then my_beloved child ? " 470 

The Baron said — His' daughter mild 




Made answer, " All will yet be well ! " 
I ween, she had no power to tell 
Aught else : so mighty was the spell. 
-Yet he, who saw this Geraldine. 
Hud deemed her, sure, a thing divine. 
Such sorrow with such grace she blended, 
As if she feared, she had offended 
Sweet Christabel, that gentle maid ! 
And with sudi lowly tones she prayed. 
She might be sent without delay 
Home to her father's mansion, 

" Nay ! 
^Jay, by my soul ! " said Leoline. 
Ho ! IJracy the bard, the charge be thine I 
(io thou, with music sweet and loud. 
And take two steeds with trajipings proud. 
And take the youth whom thou lov'st best 
To bear thy harj), and learn thy song, 
And clothe you both in solemn vest. 
And over the mountains haste along, •''" 

Lest wandering folk, that are abroad, 
Detain you on the valley road. 
And when he has crossed the Irthing flood. 
My merry bard ! he hastes, he hastes 
Up Knorren Moor, through Halegarth Wood, 
.And n-aches soon that castle good 
Which stanils and threatens Scotland's wastes. 

" Bard Bracy ! liard Bracy ! your horses are fleet, 

Ye must ridt; up the hall, your music so sweet, 

More loud than your horses' echoing feet ! ^"" 

And loud and loud to Lord Roland call. 

Thy daughter i>^ safe in Langdale hall ! 

Thy beautiful daughter is safe and free — 

Sir Leoline greets thee thus through me. 

He bids thee come without delay 

With all tliv munerous anay ; 

And take thy lovely ilaughti-r home. 

And he will meet tJiee on the way 

Witli all his numerous arra\' 

Wliilf with thrii ])anting palfreys' loam; '"* 



And, by mine honour ! I will say, 
That I repent me of the day 
When I spake words of fierce disdain 
To Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine ! — 
— For since that evil hom" hath flown, 
Many a summer's sun hath shone ; 
Yet ne'er found I a friend again 
Like Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine." 

The lady fell, and clasped his knees, 
Her face upraised, her eyes o'erflowing ; 
And Bracy replied, with faltering voice, 
His gracious hail on all bestowing • — 
" Thy words, thou sire of Christabel, 
Are sweeter than my harp can tell ; 
Yet might I gain a boon of thee. 
This day my j ourney should not be, \ 
So strange a dream hath come to me ; 
That I had vowed with music loud 
To clear yon wood from thing unblest, 
Warned by a vision in my rest ! ^^° 

For in my sleep I saw that dove, 
That gentle bird, whom thou dost love, 
And call'st by thy own daughter's name — 
Sir Leoline ! I saw the same, V 

Fluttering, and uttering fearful moan, 
Among the green herbs in the forest alone. a-, 

Which when I saw and when I heard, ' 

I wonder'd what might ail the bird ; 
For nothing near it could I see. 
Save the grass and green herbs underneath the old 
tree. ^40 

"And in my dream, methought, I went 
To search out what might there be found ; 
And what the sweet bird's trouble meant, 
That thus lay fluttering on the ground. 
I went and peered, and could descry 
No cause f or her distressful cr y ; 
Butyet for her dear lady's sake 
I stooped, methought, the dove to take. 




When lo ! I saw a bright grcdLSliake 
Coiled around its wings and neck. 
Green as the herbs on wliich it couched, 
Close by the dove's its head it crouched ; 
And with tlie dove it heaves and stirs, 
SweUing its neck as she swelled hers ! 
I"wok;e ; it was the midnight hour. 
The clock was echoing in the tower ; 
But though niy slumber was gone by, 
This dream it would not pass away — 
It seems to live upon my eye ! 
And thence T vowed this self-same day, 
With music strong and saintly song 
To wander through the forest bare, 
Lest aught unholy loiter there." 

Thus Bracy said : the Baron, the while. 
Half-listening heard him with a smile ; 
Then turned to Lady (ieraldine. 
His eyes made up of wonder and love ; 
And said in courtly accents fine, 
" Sweet maid, Lord Roland's beauteous dove. 
With arms more strong than harj) or song, 
' Thy sire and I will crush the snake ! " 
Ht- kissed her forehead as he spake. 
And (ieraldine, in maiden wise. 
Casting down lier large bright eyes. 
With blushing cheek and courtesy line 
Slu* turned her from Sir Leoline ; 
Softly gathered uj) her train. 
That o'er her right arm fell again ; 
And folded her arms across her chest, 
And couched her head ujhmi her breast, 

/Ami looked askance at Christabel 

Jesu, Maria, shield her well ! 





A snake's small eye blinks dull and shy. 

And the lady's ey<^"S they shrunk in her head. 

Each shrunk up to a serpent's eye. 

And with somewhat of malice, and more of dreac' 

At Christabel she lookt^l askance !-- 

One moment — and the sight was fled ! 
But Christabel in dizzy trance, 
Stumbhng on the unsteady ground 
Shuddered aloud, with a hissing sound ; 
And Geraldine again turned round. 
And like a thing, that sought relief, 
Full of wonder and full of grief. 
She rolled her large bright eyes divine 
Wildly on Sir Leoline. 




Tlic nuiiil, ahus ! her thoughts are gone, 
She nothing sees — no sight hut one ! 
The maid, devoid of guile and sin, 
■ I know not liow, in fearful wise ^"^ 

So deeply had she drunken in 
That look, those shrunken serpent eyes. 
That all her features were resigned 
To this sole image in her mind ; 
And passively did imitate 
That look of dull and treacherous hate ! 
And thus she stood, in dizzy trance, 
Still picturing that look askance 
With forced unconscious sympathy 
Full before her father's view — *'" 

As far as such a look could be, 
In eves so innocent and blue ! 
And when the trance was o'er, the maid 
Paused awhile, and inly prayed : 
Then falling at the Baron's feet, 
" l-Jy my Mother's soul tlo I entreat 
That thou this woman send away ! " 
She said ; and more she could not say : 
For what she knew she could not tell, 
O'er-mastered by the mighty spell. ''-" 

Why is thy cheek so wan aiul wild, 
Sir Leoline ? Thy only child 
Lies at thy feet, thy joy, thy pride, 
So fair, so innocent, so mild ; 
The same, for whom thy lady died ! 
() by the pangs of her dear mother 
Think thou no evil of thy child ! 
I'^or her, and thee, and for no other, 
She jirayed the moment ere she died : 
I*ra\t'd thai the babe for whom she died, *^" 

Might pro\e her dear lord's joy and priile ! 
That prayer her deadly pangs beguiled. 

Sir Leoline ! 
And would'st thou wrong thy only cliild. 
Her child and thine ? 


Within the Baron's heart and brain 

If thoughts, hke these, had any share, 

They only swelled his rage and pain, 

And did but work confusion there. 

His heart was cleft with pain and rage, 

His cheeks they quivered, his eyes were wild, 

Dishonoured thus in his old age ; 

Dishonoured by his only child. 

And all his hospitality 

To the insulted daughter of his friend 

By more than woman's jeal ousy, 

Brought thus fo a disgraceful end — 

He rolled his eye with stern regard 

Upon the gentle minstrel bard. 

And said in tones abrupt, austere — 

" Why, Bracy ! dost thou loiter here ? 

I bade thee hence ! " The bard obeyed ; 

And turning from his own sweet maid, 

The aged knight. Sir Leoline, 

Led forth the lady Geraldine ! 







A little child, a limber elf, 
Singing, dancing to itself, 
I A fairy thing with red round checks, 
That always finds, and never seeks, 
Makes such a vision to the sight 
As fills a father's eyes with light ; 
And pleasures flow in so thick and fast 
Upon his heart, that he at last 
Must needs express his love's excess 
With words of unmeant bitterness. 
Perhaps 'tis pretty to force together 
Thoughts so all unlike each other ; 
To mutter and mock a broken charm. 
To dally with wrong that does no harm. 
Perhaps 'tis tender too and pretty 
At each wild word to feel within 
A~ sweet recoil of love and pity. 
And what, if in a world of sin 
(O sorrow and shame should this be true !) 
Such giddiness of heart and brain 
Comes seldom save from rage and j)ain, 
So talks as it's most used to do ? 






A PROSE composition, one not in metre at least, seems prima 
facie to require explanation or apology. It was written in the 
year 1798, near Nether Stowey in Somersetshire, at which place 
(sanctum ct amabile nomen ! rich by so many associations and 
recollections) the Author had taken up his residence in order to 
enjoy the society and close neighbourhood of a dear and honoured 
friend, T. Poole, Esq. The work was to have been written in 
concert with another [Wordsworth], whose name is too venerable 
within the precincts of genius to be unnecessarily brought into 
connection with such a trilie, and who was then residing at a 
small distance from Nether Stowey. The title and subject were 
suggested by myself, who likewise drew out the scheme and the 
contents for each of the three book,s or cantos, of which the 
work was to consist, and which, the reader is to be informed, 
was to have been finished in one night ! My partner undertook 
the first canto : I the second : and whichever had done first, 
was to set about the third. Almost thirty years have passed 
by ; yet at this moment I cannot without something more than 
a smile moot the question which of the two things was the more 
impracticable, for a mind so eminently original to compose 
another man's thoughts and fancies, or for a taste so austerely 
pure and simple to imitate the Death of Abel ? Methinks I 
see his grand and noble countenance as at the moment when 
having despatched my own portion of the task at full finger- 
speed, I hastened to him with my manuscript — that look of 
humorous despondency fixed on his almost blank sheet of paper, 
and then its silent mock-piteous admission of failure struggling 
with the sense of the exceeding ridiculousness of the whole 
scheme — which broke up in a laugh : and the Ancient Mariner 
was written instead. 

Years afterwards, however, the draft of the Plan and pro- 
posed Incident, and the portion executed, obtained favour in 
the eyes of more than one person, whose judgment on a poetic 
work could not but have weighed with me, even though no 
parental partiality had been thrown into the same scale, as a 
make-weight : and I determined on commencing anew, and 
composing the whole in stanzas, and made some progress in 
realising this intention, when adverse gales drove my bark 
off the " Fortunate Isles " of the Muses ; and then other and 
more momentous interests prompted a different voyage, to firmer 
anchorage and a securer port. I have in vain tried to recover 
the lines from the Palimpsest tablet of my memory ; and I can 
only offer the introductory stanza, which had been committed 
to writing for the purpose of procuring a friend's judgment on 
the metre, as a specimen. 

257 R 


Enciiicturcd with a t\vine of leaves. 

That leafy twine his only dress ! 

A lovely Boy was plucking fruits, 

By moonUght, in a wilderness. 

The moon was bright, the air was free, 

And fruits and flowers together grew 

On many a shrub and many a tree : 

And all put on a gentle hue, 

Hanging in the shadowy air 

Like a picture rich and rare. 

It was a climate where, they say, 

The night is more bclov'd than day. 

But who that beauteous Boy beguil'd, 

That beauteous Boy to linger here ? 

Alone, by night, a little child, 

In place so silent and so wild — 

lias he no friend, no loving Mother near ? 

I have here given the birth, parentage, and premature decease 
of the " Wanderings of Cain, a poem," — intrcating, however, 
my Readers not to tliink so meanly of my judgment as to suppose 
that I cither regard or offer it as any excuse for the publication 
of the following fragment (and I may add, of one or two others 
in its neighbourhood) in its primitive crudity. But I should 
find still greater difficulty in forgiving myself, were I to record 
/>ro ta-dii) publico a set of petty mishaps anil annoyances which I 
myself wish to forget. I must be content therefore with assuring 
the friendly Reader, that the less he attributes its appearance 
to the Author's will, choice, or judgment, tlic nearer to the truth 
he will be. 



" A little further, O my father, yet a little furtiier, 
and we .shall come into the oi)en nioonlis^ht." Their 
road ^vas throiif^h a forest of tlr-trees ; at its entrance 
the trees stood at tlistances from each other, and the 
path was broad, and the moonlight, and the moonlight 
shallows reposed iijion it, ami appeared quietly to 
inhabit that solitude. But soon the ])ath winded and 
became narrow ; the sun at high noon sometimes 
speckled, but never illumined it, and now it was dark as 
a cavern. 

" It is dark, O my father ! " said Enos. " but the path 
under our feet is smooth and soft, and we shall soon 
come out into the open moonlight." 


" Lead on, my child ! " said Cain : " guide me, little 
child ! " And the innocent little child clasped a finger 
of the hand which had murdered the righteous Abel, and 
he guided his father. " The fir branches drip upon thee, 
my son," "Yea, pleasantly, father, for I ran fast and 
eagerly to bring thee the pitcher and the cake, and my 
body is not yet cool. How happy the squirrels are that 
feed on these fir-trees ! they leap from bough to bough, and 
the old squirrels play round their young ones in the nest. 
I clomb a tree yesterday at noon, O my father, that I 
might play with them, but they leapt away from the 
branches, even to the slender twigs did they leap, and 
in a moment I beheld them on another tree. Why, 

my father, would they not play with me ? I would 
be good to them as thou art good to me : and I groaned 
to them even as thou groanest when thou givest me to 
eat, and when thou coverest me at evening, and as often 
as I stand at thy knee and thine eyes look at me ? " 
Then Cain stopped, and stifling his groans he sank to the 
earth, and the child Enos stood in the darkness beside 

And Cain lifted up his voice and cried bitterly, and 
said, " The Mighty One that persecuteth me is on this 
side and on that ; he pursueth my soul like the wind, 
like the sand-blast he passeth through me ; he is around 
me even as the air ! that I might be utterly no more ! 

1 desire to die — yea, the things that never had life, neither 
move they upon the earth — behold ! they seem precious 
to mine eyes. O that a man might live without the 
breath of his nostrils. So I might abide in darkness, and 
blackness, and an empty space ! Yea, I would lie 
down, I would not rise, neither would I stir my hmbs 
till I became as the rock in the den of the Hon, on which 
the young lion resteth his head whilst he sleepeth. For 
the torrent that roareth far off hath a voice ; and the 
clouds in heaven look terribly on me ; the Mighty One 
who is against me speaketh in the wind of the cedar 
grove ; and in silence am I dried up." Then Enos spake 
to his father, " Arise, my father, arise, we are but a little 
way from the place where I found the cake and the 
pitcher." And Cain said, "How knowest thou?" and 



tlie child answered — " Behold the bare rocks are a few 
of thy strides distant from the forest ; and while even 
now thou wert lifting uj) thy voice, I heard the echo." 
Then the child took hold of his father, as if he would 
raise him : and Cain being faint and feeble rose slowh 
on his knees and jjressed himself against the trunk of .i 
fir, and stood upright and followed the child. 

The path was dark till within three strides' length of 
its termination, when it turned suddenly ; the thick 
black trees formed a low arch, and the moonlight 
appeared for a moment like a dazzling portal. Eno- 
ran before and stood in the ojien air ; and when Cain, 
his father, emerged from the darkness, the child was 
affrighted. For the mighty limbs of Cain were wasteil 
as by lire ; his hair was as the matted curls on tli' 
Bison's forehead, and so glared his fierce and sullen evi 
beneath : and the black abundant locks on either side. ;i 
rank and tangled mass, were stained and scorched, ;i~ 
though the grasp of a burning iron hand had striven 
to rend them ; and his countenance told in a strange and 
terrible language of agonies that had been, and were, 
and were still to continue to be. 

The scene around was desolate ; as far as the eye ccnild 
reach it was desolate : the bare rocks laced each other, 
and left a long and wide interval of thin white sand. 
You might wander on and look round and round, and 
|ieep into the crevices of the rocks and discover nothing 
ihat acknowledged the inlluence of the seasons. There 
was no spring, no summer, no autumn : and the winter's 
snow, that would have been lovely, fell not on these 
hot rocks and scorching sands. Never morning lark had 
poised himself over this desert ; but the huge serpent 
often hissed there beneath the talons of the vulture, and 
the vulture sm-amed. his wings imprisonetl within the 
coils of the serpent. The pointed and shattereil sum- 
mits of the ridges of the rocks made a rude mimicry of 
human concerns, and seemed to jirophesy nuitely of 
things that then were not ; steeples, and battlements, 
anil ships with naked masts. As far from the wood as a 
boy might sling a pebble of tlu- brook, there was one 
rock by itself at a small distance from the main ridge. 

It had been" precipitated there perhaps by the groan 
which the Earth uttered when our first father fell. 
Before you approached, it appeared to lie flat on the 
ground, but its base slanted from its point and between 
its point and the sands a tall man might stand upright. 
It was here that Enos had found the pitcher and cake, 
and to this place he led his father But ere they had 
reached the rock they beheld a human shape : his back 
was towards them, and they were advancing unperceived 
when they heard him smite his breast and cry aloud, 
" Wo is me ! wo is me ! I must never die again, and yet 
I am perishing with thirst and hunger." 

Pallid, as the reflection of the sheeted lightning on the 
heavy-sailing Night-cloud, became the face of Cain ; 
but the child Enos took hold of the shaggy skin, his 
Father's robe, and raised his eyes to his Father, and 
listening whispered, " Ere yet I could speak, I am sure, 
O my father, that I heard that voice. Have not I often 



said that I rcmemberetl a sweet voice ? O my father ! 
this is it:" and Cain trembled exceedingly. The voice 
was sweet indeed, but it was thin and querulous like 
that of a feeble slave in misery, who despairs alto- 
gether, yet cannot refrain himself from weejiing and 
lamentation. And, behold ! Enos glided forward, and 
creeping softly round the of the rock, stood 
before the stranger, and looked up into his face. 
And the Shape shrieked, and turned round, and Cain 
beheUl him, that his limbs and his face were those of his 
brother Abel whom he had killed ! And Cain stood like 
one who struggles in his sleep because of the exceeding 
terribleness of a dream. 

Thus as he stood in silence and darkness of Soul, the 
Shape fell at his feet, and embraced his knees, and 
cried out with a bitter outcry, " Thou eldest born of 
Adam, whom Eve, my mother, brought forth, cease to 
torment me ! I was feeding my flocks in gneen pastures 
by the side of quiet rivers, and thou killedst me ; and now 
I am in misery." Then Cain closed his eyes and hid 
them with his hands ; and again he opened his eyes, 
and looked around him, and said to Enos, " What 
beholdest thou ? Didst thou hear a voice, my son ? " 
" \'es, my father, I beheld a man in unclean garments, 
and he uttered a sweet voice, full of lamentation." Then 
Cain raised up the Shape that was like Abel, and said, 
" The Creator of our father, who had respect unto thee, 
and unto thy offering, wherefore hath he forsaken thee ? " 
Then the Shape shrieked a second time, and rent his 
garment, and his nakeil skin was like tlie white sands 
beneath their feet ; and he shrieked yet a third time, and 
threw himself on his face upon the sand that was black 
with the shadow of the rock, and Cain and Enos sate 
beside him ; the child by his right hand, and Cain by his 
left. They were all three under the rock, and within 
the shadow. The Shape that was like Abel raised him- 
self uj), and sjiake to the child ; " I know where the 
Cold waters are, but I may not drink, wherefore didst 
thou then take away my jiitcher ? " lUit Cain said, 
" Didst thou not find favour in the sight of tlie Lord thy 
God ? " The Shajie answered, " Tin- Lord is Ciod of tlie 


living only, the dead have another God." Then the 
child Enos lifted up his eyes and prayed ; but Cain 
rejoiced secretly in his heart. " Wretched shall they be 
all the days of their mortal life," exclaimed the Shape, 
" who sacrifice worthy and acceptable sacrifices to the 
God of the dead ; but after death their toil ceaseth. 
Woe is me, for I was well beloved by the God of the 
living, and cruel wert thou, O my brother, who didst 
snatch me away from his power and his dominion." 
Having uttered these words, he rose suddenly, and fled 
over the sands ; and Cain said in his heart, " The curse 
of the Lord is on me ; but who is the God of the dead ? " 
and he ran after the Shape, and the Shape fled shrieking 
over the sands, and the sands rose like white mists 
behind the steps of Cain, but the feet of him that was 
like Abel disturbed not the sands. He greatly outran 
Cain, and turning short, he wheeled round, and came 
again to the rock where they had been sitting, and where 
Enos still stood ; and the child caught hold of his gar- 
ment as he passed by, and he fell upon the ground. And 
Cain stopped, and beholding him not, said, " He has 
passed into the dark woods," and he walked slowly back 
to the rocks ; and when he reached it the child told him 
that he had caught hold of his garment as he passed by, 
and that the man had fallen upon the ground ; and 
Cain once more sat beside him, and said, " Abel, my 
brother, I would lament for thee, but that the spirit 
within me is withered, and burnt up with extreme agony. 
Now, I pray thee, by thy flocks, and by thy pastures, 
and by the quiet rivers which thou lovedst, that thou 
tell me all that thou knowest. Who is the God of the 
dead ? where doth he make his dwelling ? what sacrifices 
are acceptable unto him ? for I have offered, but have not 
been received ; I have prayed, and have not been heard ; 
and how can I be afflicted more than I already am ? " 
The Shape arose and answered, " O that thou hadst 
had pity on me as I will have pity on thee. Follow me. 
Son of Adam ! and bring thy child with thee ! " 

And they three passed over the white sands between 
the rocks, silent as the shadows. 





The following fragment is here published at the request of a 

poet of great and deserved celebrity [Lord Byron], and as far as 

the Autlior's own opinions are concerneil, ratlier as a psycholo- 

i gical curiosity than on the ground of any supjiosed f^oflic merits. 

In tlie summer of the year 1707, the Author, then in ill healtii. 
had ntin-d to a lonely farm-house between I'iirlock and Linton, 
on tile ILxmoor confines of Somerset and Devonshire. In con- 
.sequence of a sliglit indisposition, an anodyne had been j)re- 
scribed, from the eflects 01 which he fell asleep in his chair at 
the moment that he was reading the following sentence, or words 
of the .same substance, in Putchis's Pilgrimaf^e ; " Here the 
Kliaii Kubla commanded a ])alaee to be built, and a stalely 
garden thenuuto. And thus ten miles of fertile ground were in- 



closed with a wall." The author continued for about three 
hours in a profound sleep, at least of the external senses, during 
which time he has the most vivid confidence, that he could not 
have composed less than from two to three hundred lines ; if, 
that indeed can be called composition in which all the images 
rose up before him as things, with a parallel production of the 
correspondent expressions, without any sensation or conscious- 
ness of effort. On awaking he appeared to himself to have a 
distinct recollection of the whole, and taking his pen, ink, and 
paper, instantly and eagerly wrote down the lines that are here 
preserved. At this moment he was unfortunately called out by 
a person on business from Porlock, and defamed by him above 
an hour, and on his return to his room, found to his no small 
surprise and mortification, that though he still retained some 
vague and dim recollection of the general purport of the vision, 
yet, with the exception of some eight or ten scattered lines and 
images, all the rest had passed away like the images on the surface 
of a stream into which a stone had been cast, but, alas ! witliout 
the after restoration of the latter : — 

Then all the charm 
Is broken — all that phantom world so fair 
Vanishes, and a thousand circlets spread. 
And each mis-shape the other. Stay awhile, 
Poor youth ! who scarcely darest lift up thine eyes — 
The stream will soon renew its smoothness, soon 
The visions will return ! And lo, he stays. 
And soon the fragments dim of lovely forms 
Come trembling back, unite, and now, once more. 
The pool becomes a mirror. 

Yet from the still surviving recollections in his mind the Author 
has frequently purposed to finish for himself what had been origi- 
nally, as it were, given to him. A^ptoj' adiov dVcD : but the to-morrow 
is yet to come. 

As a contrast to this vision, I have annexed a fragment of a 
very different character, describing with equal fidelity the dreani 
of pain and disease. [" Pains of Sleep," vide post, p. 343. Note to 
the First Edition, 18 16.] 

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 
A stately pleasure-dome decree : 
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran 
Through caverns measureless to man 

Down to a sunless sea. 
So twice five miles of fertile ground 
With walls and towers were girdled round : 
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills 
Where blossomed many an incense bearing tree ; 


And here were forests ancient as the hills, ^" 

Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. 

'^ut oh ! that deep romantic chasm which slanted 

Down the gieen hill athwart a cedarn cover ! 

A savage place ! as holy and enchanted 

As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted 

By woman wailing for her demon-lover ! 

And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil soothing. 

As if this earth in fast thick pants wore broalhing. 

A mighty fountain momently was forced : 

Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst -" 

Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, 

Or chaffy grain bcnoatli the threshers flail : 

And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever 

It flung uj) momently tlic sacred river. ,, i. 

Five miles meandering with a mazy motion 

Through wood and dale the sacred river ran. 

Then reached the caverns measureless to man, 

And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean : 

And 'mid this tunuilt Kubla hoartl from far 

Ancestral voices prophesying war ! ^" 

The shadow of the dome of pleasure 

Floated midway on the waves ; 

Whore was heard the mingled measure 

From the fountain and tho caves. 
I^^as a miracle of rare device, 
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice ! 

A damsel with a dulcimer 

In a vision once I saw : * 

It was an Abyssinian maid 

And on hor duloimi'r she }liayed, 

Singing of Mount Abora. 

Could I revive within me 

Her symjihony and song. 

To such a deep delight 'twould win me. 

Thai with music loud and long, 

I would build that dome in air. 

That suiiii\- dome ! those caves of ico ! 

And all wlu) hoard should see them there, 



And all should cry, Beware ! Beware ! 

His flashing eyes, his floating hair ! ^° 

Weave a circle round him thrice, 

And close your eyes with holy dread, 

For he on honey-dew hath fed. 

And drunk the milk of Paradise. 





[The following amusing Tale gives a very humourous descrip- 
tion of the French Revolution, which is represented as an Ox. — 
Morning Post, July 30, 1798.] 

An Ox, long fed with musty hay, 

And work'd with yoke and chain, 
Was loosen' d on an April day. 
When fields are in their best array, 
And growing grasses sparkle gay 
• At once with sun and rain. 


The grass was fine, the sun was bright — 

With truth I may aver it ; 
The beast was glad, as well he might. 
Thought a green meadow no bad sight, ^^ 

And frisk' d, — to show his huge delight, 

Much like a beast of spirit. 


" Stop, neighbours, stop, why these alarms ? 

The ox is only glad ! " 
But still they pour from cots and farms — 
" Halloo ! " the parish is up in arms, 
(A hoaxing-hwni has always charms) 

" Halloo ! the ox is mad." 

> J 





The frighted ox scamper' d about — 
Plunge ! through the hedge he drove : 

The mob pursue with hideous rout, 

A bull-dog fasten' d on his snout ; 

" He gores the dog I his tongue hangs out ! 
He's mad, he's mad, by Jove ! " 


" Stop, neighbours, stop ! " aloud did rail 

A sage of sober hue. 
" You cruel dog ! " at once they bawl. 
And women squeak and children squall, 
" What ? would you ha\e him toss us all ? 

And dam' me, who are you ? " 


All ! hapless sage ! his ears they stun, 

And curse him o'er and o'er ! 
" You bloody-minded dog ! (cries one.) 
To slit your windpijx* were good fun, 
'Ud bl — st you for an impious son 

Of a Presbyterian wh— re ! " 


" You'd have him gore the Parish-priest, 

And drive against the altar ! 
You rogue ! " The sage his warnings ceas'd. 
And north and south, and west and east, ■*" 

Halloo ! they follow the poor beast. 

Mat, Tom, Bob, Dick and Walter. 


Old Lewis ('twas his evil day). 

Stood trembling in his shoes ; 
The ox was his — what could he say ? 
His legs were stiffen'd with dismay. 
Till' ox ran o'er him nud the hay. 

Anil gave liim his death's bruise. 



The baited ox drove on (but here, 

The Gospel scarce more true is, ^^ 

My Muse stops short in mid career — 
Nay, gentle Reader, do not sneer ! 
I cannot chuse but drop a tear, 

A tear for good old Lewis !) 


The ox drove on right through the town, 

All follow' d, boy and dad. 
Bull-dog, parson, shopman, clown : 
The publicans rush'd from the Crown, 
" Halloo ! hamstring him ! cut him down ! " 

They drove the poor ox mad. ^° 


Should you a rat to madness tease 

Why ev'n a rat might plague you ; 
There's no Philosopher but sees 
That Rage and Fear are one disease — 
Though that may burn, and this may freeze. 

They're both alike the ague. 


And so this ox, in frantic mood, 

Fac'd round like a mad Bull ! 
The mob turn'd tail, and he pursued. 
Till they with flight and fear were stew'd, '° 

And not a chick of all the brood 

But had his belly full ! 


Old Nick's astride the ox, 'tis clear ! 

Old Nicholas, to a tittle ! 
But all agreed, he'd disappear. 
Would but the Parson venture near, 
And through his teeth,* right o'er the steer, 

Squirt out some fasting-spittle. 

* According to the common superstition there are two ways 
of fighting with the Devil. You may cut him in half with a 



Arhillos was a warrior fleet, 

The Trojans he could worry : "" 

Our Parson too was swift of feet. 
But show'd it chiefly in retreat : 
The victor ox drove down the street, 

The mob fled hurry-scurry. 


Tlirouj^h gardens, lanes and fields new-ploui;h'd. 

Throuf^'h his hedge, and through her hedge, 
He plung'd and toss'd and bellow'd loud — 
Till in his madness he grew proud 
To see this helter-skelter crowd 

That had more wrath than courage ! ^" 


Alack ! to mend the breaches wide 

He made for these poor ninnies, 
They all must work, what'er betide, 
Both days and months, and pay beside 
(Sad news for Av'rice and for Pride), 

A sight of golden guineas ! 


But here once more to view did pop 

The man that kept his senses^ 
And now he bawl'd, — "Stop, neighbours, stop ! 
The ox is mad ! I would not swop, i°" 

No ! not a school-boy's farthing top 

For all the parish- fences." 


" The ox is mad 1 Tom ! Walter ! Mat ! " 

" What means this coward fuss ? 
Ho ! stretch this rope across the plat — 
'Twill trip him up— or if not that. 
Why dam' me ! we must lay him flat — 

See ! here's my blunderbuss." 

straw, or Ik- will vanish if you spit over iiis liorns with a fasting 
spittle. [Note l>y S. T. C. in .l/y»;i/Mj,' Post.] 



" A bare-faced dog ! just now he said 

The Ox was only glad — ^1° 

Let's break his Presbyterian head ! " 
" Hush ! " quoth the sage, " you've been misled; 
No quarrels now ! let's all make head, 

You drove the poor ox mad." 


But lo ! to interrupt my chat, 

With the morning's wet newspaper, 
In eager haste, without his hat, 
As blind and blund'ring as a bat, 
In rush'd that fierce aristocrat, 

Our pursy woollen-draper. 120 


And so my Muse perforce drew bit ; 

And he rush'd in and panted ! 
" Well, have you heard ? " No, not a whit. 
" What, ha'nt you heard ? " Come, out with it ! 
" That Tierney's wounded Mister Pitt, 

And his fine tongue enchanted." 



Light cargoes waft of modulated sound 
From viewless Hybla brought, when Melodies 
Like Birds of Paradise on wings, that aye 
Disport in wild varieties of hues. 
Murmur around the honey-dropping flowers. 


Where Cam his stealthy flowings most dissembles, 
And scarce the willow's watery shadow trembles. 


Due to the Staggerers, that made drunk by Power 
Forget Thirst's eager promise, and presume, 
Dark Dreamers ! that the world forgets it too. 


Old Age, •• the shape and messenger of Death," 
His wither'd fist still knocking at Death s door. 

In darkness I remain'tl — the neighbour's clock 
Told me that now the rising sun 
Shone lovely on my garden. 


The Sun (for now his orb 'gan slowly sink,) 
Shot half his rays aslant the heath whose flowers 
Purpled the mountain's broad and level top ; 
Rich was his bed of clouds, and wide beneath 
Expecting Ocean smiled with dimpled face. 


The swallows 
Interweaving there, and the pair'd sea mews 
At distance wildly wailing ! 


On the lii(»;nl mountain-lop 
Tiie neighing wild-colt races with the wind 
0'(M" fern and heath-llowers. 


;\ long deep lane 
So o\(i-^lia(iow\l, it might seem (mu^ bower — 
'ihe damp clay-banks were fmr'd with moukly moss. 






*Twas sweet to know it only possible — 

Some wishes cross* d my mind and dimly cheer' d it — 

And one or two poor melancholy Pleasures — - 

In these, the pale unwarming light of Hope 

Silv'ring their flimsy wing, flew silent by, 

Moths in the moonlight. 


The sunshine lies on the cottage-wall, 
A-shining thro' the snow. 


From the Miller's mossy wheel 
The water-drops dripp'd leisurely. 



[imitated from stolberg] 

Mark this holy chapel weh ! 
The Birthplace, this, of Wilham Teh. 
Here, where stands God's altar dread, 
Stood his parents' marriage-bed. 


Here, first, an infant to her breast. 
Him his loving mother pressed ; 
And kissed the babe, and blessed the day. 
And prayed as mothers use to pray. 




" Vouchsafe him health. O God ! and give 
The Child thy servant still to live ! " 
But God liad destined to do more 
Through him, than through an armed power. 


God gave him reverence of laws, 

Yet stirring blood in Freedom's cause — 

A spirit to his rocks akin. 

The eye of tlie Hawk, and the fire therein ! 


To Nature and to Holy writ 
Alone did God the boy commit : 
Where flashed and roared the torrent, oft 
His soul found wings, and soared aloft ! 


The straining oar and chamois chase 
Had formed his limbs to strength and grace : 
On wave and wind the boy would toss. 
Was great, nor knew how great he was ! 


He knew not that his chosen hand, 
Made strong by (K)d, his native land 
Would rescue from the shann-ful yoke 
Of Sldvi'rv — the wliich he broke ! 




[Sent in a letter from Ratzeburg to the Wordsworths at 
Goslar in the winter of 1798-9.] 

William, my teacher, my friend ! dear William and 

dear Dorothea ! 
Smooth out the folds of my letter, and place it on desk 

or on table ; 
Place it on table or desk ; and your right hands loosely 

Gently sustain them in air, and extending the digit 

Rest it a moment on each of the forks of the five-forked 

left hand. 
Twice on the breadth of the thumb, and once on the tip 

of each finger ; 
Read with a nod of the head in a humouring recitativo ; 
And, as I live, you will see my hexameters hopping before 

This is a galloping measure ; a hop, and a trot, and a 

gallop ! 

All my hexameters fly, like stags pursued by the stag- 

Breathless and panting, and ready to drop, yet flying 
still onwards. t 

I would full fain pull in my hard-mouthed runaway 
hunter ; 

jBut our English Spondeans are clumsy yet impotent 
cm'b-reins ; 

I And so to make him go slowly, no way have I left but 
to lame him. 

|William, my head and my heart ! dear Poet that feelest 

and thinkest ! 
IDorothy, eager of soul, my most affectionate sister ! 
iMany a mile, O ! many a wearisome mile are ye distant, 
||Long, long comfortless roads, with no one eye that doth 

know us. 

* False metre. 

f "Still flying onwards " were perhaps better. 



O ! it is all too far to send to you mockeries idle ; 
Yea, and I feel it not right ! But O ! my friends, my 

beloved ! 
Feverish and wakeful I lie, — I am weary of feeling and 

Every thought i^ worn down, — I am wear}', yet cannot 

be vacant. 
Five long hours have I tossed, rheumatic heats, dry and 

Gnawing behind in my head, and wandering and throb- 

l)ing about me, 
Basy and tiresome, my friends, as the beat of the boding 


I forget the beginning of the line 

. . . my eyes are a burthen, 

Now unwillingly closed, now open and aching with dark- 

O ! what a life is the eye ! what a line and inscrutable 
essence ! 

Him that is utterly blind, nor glimpses the fire that 
warms him ; 

Him that never liehcld the swelling breast of his mother; 

Him that ne'er smiled at the bosom as babe that smiles 
in its slumber ; 

Even to him it exists, it stirs and moves in its prison ; 

Lives with a separate life, and •' Is it the Spirit ? " he 

murmurs : 
Sure, it has thouglits of its own. and to see is only its 


Tlicre was a great deal more, whicli I have forgotten. . . . The 
last line which I wrote, I remember, and write it for the truth of 
the sfiitiment, scarcely less true in comi>any tlian in pain and 
solitude — 

William my head and my heart ! dear William and dear 

Dorotliea I 
You ha\e all in e.uh ollui ; but I am lonely, aiul want 
you I 

• i-alse metre. 


[imitated from stolberg] 

Yes, noble old Warrior ! this heart has beat high, 
Since you told of the deeds which our countrymen 
wi'ought ; 

lend me the sabre that hung by thy thigh, 
And I too will fight as my Forefathers fought. 

Despise not my youth, for my spirit is steeled. 

And I know. there is strength in the grasp of my hand ; 

Yea, as firm as thyself would I march to the field, 
And as proudly would die for my dear native land. 

In the sports of my childhood I mimicked the fight. 
The sound of a trumpet suspended my breath ; 

And my fancy still wandered by day and by night, 
Amid battle and tumult, 'mid conquest and death. 

My own shout of onset, in the heat of my trance, 
How oft it awakes me from visions of glory ; 

When I meant to have leapt on the Hero of France, 
And have dashed him to earth, pale and breathless 
and gory. 

As late thro' the city with banners all streaming 
To the music of trumpets the Warriors flew by. 

With helmet and scimitars naked and gleaming, 

On their proud-trampling, thunder-hoofed steeds did 
they fly ; 

1 sped to yon heath that is lonely and bare, 

For each nerve was unquiet, each pulse in alarm ; 
And I hurled the mock-lance thro' the objectless air, 
And in open-eyed dream proved the strength of my 

Yes, noble old Warrior ! this heart has beat high, 
Since you told of the deeds that our countrymen 
wrought ; 
lend me the sabre that hung by thy thigh, 
And I too will fight as my forefathers fought ! 


[from OWEN'S Epigrams] 

Sly Heel/ebub took all occasions 
To try Job's constancy and patience ; 
He took his honours, took his health. 
He took his children, took his wealth, 
His camels, horses, asses, cows — 
And the sly Devil did not take his spouse. 

]^ut Heaven that brings out good from evil. 
And loves to disa})point the Devil, 
Had ])redetermined to restore 
Twofold all Job had before. 
His children, camels, horses, cows — 
Short-sighted Devil, not to take his spouse ! 







Unperishing youth ! 
Thou leajiest from forth 
The cell of thy hiiKlen nati\ it}- ; 
Never mortal saw 
The cradle of the strong one ; 
Never mortal heard 
The gathering of his voices ; 

The dccp-murnuir'd charm of the son of the rock, 
That is lisped ever more at his slumberless fovmtain. 
There's a cU)ud at the portal, a spray-\vo\en veil 
At the shrine of his ceaseless renewing ; 




It eml:)Osoms the roses of dawn, 

It entangles the shafts of the noon, 

And into the bed of its stillness 

The moonshine sinks down as in slumber, 

That the son of the rock, that the nursling of heaven 

May be born in a holy twilight ! 


The wild goat in awe 

Looks up and beholds 

Above thee the cliff inaccessible ; — - 

Thou at once full-born 

Madd'nest in thy joyance, 

Whirlest, shatter'st, splitt'st, 

Life invulnerable. 



[imitated from SCHILLER] 

Never, believe me, 
Appear the Immortals, 
Never alone : 
Scarce had I welcomed the Sorrow-beguiler, 
lacchus ! but in came Boy Cupid the Smiler ; 
Lo ! Phoebus the Glorious descends from his Throne 
They advance, they float in, the Olympians all ! 
With Divinities fills my 
Terrestrial Hall ! 

How shall I yield you 
Due entertainment, 
Celestial Quire ? 


Me ratlicr, bright guests ! with your wings of upbuoy- 

Bear aloft to your homes, to your banquets of joyance, 
That the roofs of Olympus may echo my Intc ! 
Hah ! we mount ! on their pinions they waft up my 

O give me the Nectar ! 
O fill me the Bowl ! 

Give him the Nectar ! 
Pour out for the Poet ! 
Hebe ! pour free ! 
Quicken his eyes with celestial dew, 
That Styx the detested no more he may view, 
And like one of us Gods may conceit him to be I 
Thanks, Hebe ! I quaff it ! lo P.ean, I cry ! 
The Wine of the Immortals 
Forbids me to die ! 



Know'st thou the land where the pale Citrons grow, 
The golden fruits in darker foliage glow ? 
Soft blows the winil that breathes^from that blue sk\' ! 
Stilfstands the Myrtle, and the Laurel, high ! 
Know'st tliovi it well, that land. belo\i''d Erienil ? 
Thither with thee, O, thither would I wend I 



When thou to my true-love comest 
Greet her from thee kindly ; 

When she asks thee how I fare, 
Say, folks in Heaven fare finely. 

When she asks, " What ! Is he sick ? 

Say, dead ! — and when for sorrow 
She begins to sob and cry. 

Say, I come to-morrow. 



[from the French] 

"Come hither, gently rowing. 

Come, bear me quickly o'er 
This stream so brightly flowing 

To yonder woodland shore. 
But vain were my endeavour 

To pay thee, courteous guide ; 
Row on, row on, for ever 

I'd have thee by my side. 

" Good boatman, prithee haste thee, 

I seek my father-land. — " 
" Say, when I there have placed thee. 

Dare I demand thy hand ? " 
" A maiden's head can never 

So hard a point decide ; 
Row on, row on, for ever 

I'd have thee by my side." 

282 NAMES 

The happy bridal over 

The wanderer ceased to roam, 
For, seated by her lover, 

Tlie boat became her home. 
And still they sang together 
As steering o'er the tide : 
" Row on through wind and weather 
For ever by my side." 



[from lessing] 

1 ASKi:i) my lair one happy day, 
What I should call her in my lay ; 

By what sweet name from Rome or Greece 
Lalage, Nea-ra, Chloris, 
Sappho, Lesbia, or Doris, 

Arethusa or Lucrecc. 

" Ah ! " replied my gentle fair, 

" lielovdd, what are names but air ? 

Clioosc thou whatever suits tlie line ; 
Call me Sappho, call me Chloris, 
Call me Lalage or Doris. 

Only, only call me Thine." 



We pledged our hearts, my love and I, — 
I in my arms the maiden clasping ; 

I could not guess the reason why, 
But, oh ! I trembled like an aspen. 

Her father's leave she bade me gain ; 

I went, but shook like any reed ! 
I strove to act the man — in vain ! 

We had exchanged our hearts indeed. 



[This paraphrase, written about the time of Charlemagne, 
is by no means deficient in occasional passages of considerable 
poetic merit. There is a flow and a tender enthusiasm in the 
following lines which even in the translation will not, I flatter 
myself, fail to interest the reader. Ottfried is describing the 
circumstances immediately following the birth of our Lord. . . . 
Most interesting is it to consider the effect when the feelings 
are wrought above the natural pitch by the belief of something 
mysterious, while all the images are purely natural. Then it is 
that religion and poetry strike deepest. — Biog. Lit. i. 203, 4.] 

She gave with joy her virgin breast ; 
She hid it not, she bared the breast 
Which suckled that divinest Babe ! 
Blessed, blessed, were the breasts 
Which the Saviour infant kissed ; 
And blessed, blessed was the mother 
Who wrapped his limbs in swaddling clothes, 
Singing placed him on her lap. 
Hung o'er him with her looks of love. 
And soothed him with a lulling motion. 




Blessed I fur she shelter'd him 
From the damp and chiUing air ; 
Blessed, blessed ! for she lay 
With such a babe in one blest bed, 
Close as babes and mothers lie ! 
Blessed, blessed evermore. 
With her viri(in lips she kissed, 
Witli her arms, and to her breast, 
She embraced the Babe divine, 
Her Babe divine the \^irgin Mother ! 
There lives not on this ring of earth 
A mortal that can sing her praise. 
Mighty Mother, Virgin pure, 
In the darkness ancl the night 
For us she bore tlie heavenly Lord ! 




" Be, rather than be call'd. a child of God," 
Death whisjxncd ! — with assenting nod, 
Its head upon its mother's breast, 

The Baby bow'd, without demur — 
Of the kingdom of the Blest 

Possessor, not inheritor. 


soMirniiNG CHiiJMsii, lurr vkry 


[from the germ.\n] 

li' 1 luul l)ut two little wings, 
And were a little feathery bird, 
To y<»u rd fh', my dear ! 
Bui thoughts like these are idle things, 
And 1 stay here. 


But in my sleep to you I fly : 

I'm always with you in my sleep ! 
The world is all one's own. 
Bvit then one wakes, and where am I ? 
All, all alone. 

Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids, — 
So I love to wake ere break of day : 
For though my sleep be gone, 
Yet, while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids. 
And still dreams on. 




'Tis sweet to him, who all the week 

Through city-crowds must push his way. 

To stroll alone through fields and woods, 
And hallow thus the Sabbath-Day. 

And sweet it is, in summer bower, 

Sincere, affectionate and gay. 
One's own dear children feasting round. 

To celebrate one's marriage-day. 

But what is all, to his delight. 

Who having long been doomed to roam. 
Throws off the bundle from his back, 

Before the door of his own home ? 

Home-sickness is a wasting pang ; 

This feel I hourly more and more : 
There's Healing only in thy wings. 

Thou Breeze that playest on Albion's shore ! 




I STOOD on Brocken's * sovran height, and saw- 
Woods crowding upon woods, hills over hills, 
A surging scene, and only limited 
By the blue distance. Heavily my way 
Downward I dragged through lir groves evermore, 
Where bright green moss heaves in sepulchral forms 
Sj^eckled with sunsliine ; and, but seldom heard. 
The sweet bird's song became an hollow sound ; 
And the breeze, murmuring indivisibly. 
Preserved its solemn murnuir most distinct '•* 

From many a note of many a waterfall. 
And the ])r()ok's chatter ; 'mid whose islet stones 
The dingy kidling with its tinkling bell 
Leaped frolic'^ome, or old romantic goat 
Sat, his white beard slow waving. I moved on 
In low and languid mood: f Lfor I had found 
That outward Fwrms, the loftiest, still receive 
Tlu'ir liner influence from the Life within ; — 
I*"air cyphers else : fair, but of import vague 
( )r unconcerning, where the Heart not finds -" 

History or Projihecy of Friend, or Child, 
Or gentle Maid, our thst and early love. 
Or Father, or the venerable name 
Of our adored Countrv ! O thou Oueen, 
Thou delegated Drity of Farth, 
O di-ar, dear EngUuul ! how my longing eye 
Turned westward. shaj)ing in the steady clouds 
Thy sands and high white cliffs ! 

♦ The highest mountain in the Hartz, and indeed in North 

t . . . Wlun I liave ^azcd 
From some hi);h eiuininee on f^oodly vales, 
.And eots ami vill.ij,'es embowereil below. 
The thought would rise that all to me was strange 
.■\mid the scenes so fair, nor one small sjiot 
Where my tired mind might rest, ami call it Ijome. 

Soi'TiiEv'.s Hytnti to the Penates. 


My native Land ! 
Filled with the thought of thee this heart was proud, 
Yea, mine eye swam with tears : that all the view ^^ 
From sovran Brocken, woods and woody hills, 
Floated away, like a departing dream. 
Feeble and dim ! Stranger, these impulses 
Blame thou not lightly ; nor will I profane. 
With hasty judgment or injurious doubt, 
That man's sublimer spirit, who can feel 
That God is everywhere ! the God who framed 
Mankind to be one mighty Family, 
Himself our Father, and the World our Home."^ 




If thou wert here, these tears were tears of light ! 

But from as sweet a vision did I start 
As ever made these eyes grow idly bright ! 

And though I weep, yet still around my heart 
A sweet and playful tenderness doth linger. 
Touching my heart as with an infant's linger. 

My mouth half open, like a witless man, 
I saw our couch, I saw our quiet room. 
Its shadows heaving by the fire-light gloom ; 
And o'er my lips a subtle feeling ran. 
All o'er my lips a soft and breeze-like feeling — 
I know not what — but had the same been stealing 

Upon a sleeping mother's lips, I guess 

It would have made the loving mother dream 

That she was softly bending down to kiss 

Her babe, that something more than babe did seem, 

A floating presence of its darling father. 

And yet its own dear baby self far rather ! 


Across my chest there lay a weij^ht, so warm I 
As if some bird had taken shelter there ; 

And lo ! I seemed to see a woman's form — 
Thine, Sara, thine ? O joy, if thine it were I 

I gazed with stilled breath, and fear'd to stir it, 

No deeper trance e'er wrapped a yearning spirit ! 

And now, when I seemeil sure thy face to see, 
Thy own dear self in our own quiet home ; 

There came an elfish laugh, and wakened me : 
'Twas Frederic who beliind my chair had clomb. 

And with his bright eyes at my face was peeping, 

I blessed him, tried to laugh, and fell a-weeping I 




Earth I tiiou mother of numberless children, the nurse 

and the mother. 
Hail ! O Goddess, thrice hail ! Blest be thou I and. 

blessing, I hynm thee ! 
Forth, ye sweet sounds ! from my harp, and my voice 

shall lloat on your surges — 
Soar thou aloft, () my soul ! and bear up my song on 

thy pinions. 

Travelling the vale with mine eyes — green meadows and 

lake with green island. 
Dark in its basin of rock, and the bare stream flowing in 

Thrillecl with tliy beauty and love in the wooded slojieof 

the mountain. 
Here, great Motlur. 1 lie. thy chiUl, with his head on thy 

bosom ! 
Playful the spirits of noon, that rushing soft through thy 



Green-haired goddess ! refresh me ; and hark ! as they 

hurry or linger, 10 

Fill the pause of my harp, or sustain it with musical 

Into my being thou murmurest joy, and tenderest 

Shedd'st thou, like dew, on my heart, till the joy and 

the heavenly sadness 
Pour themselves forth from my heart in tears, and the 

hymn of thanksgiving. 

Earth ! thou mother of numberless children, the nurse 

and the mother. 
Sister thou of the stars, and beloved by the Sun the 

rejoicer ! 
Guardian and friend of the Moon, O Earth, whom the 

Comets forget not. 
Yea, in the measureless distance wheel round and again 

they behold thee ! 
Fadeless and young (and what if the latest birth of 

creation ?) 
Bride and consort of Heaven, that looks down upon 

thee enamoured ! 2" 

Say, mysterious Earth ! O say, great Mother and 

Was it not well with thee then, when first thy lap was 

Thy lap to the genial Heaven, the day that he wooed 

thee and won thee ! 
Fair was thy blush, the fairest and first of the blushes 

of morning ! 
Deep was the shudder, O Earth ! the throe of thy 

self-retention : 
Inly thou strovest to flee, and didst seek thyself at thy 

centre ! 
Mightier far was the joy of thy sudden resilience ; and 

Myriad myriads of lives teemed forth from the mighty 

Thousand-fold tribes of dwellers, impelled by thousand- 
fold instincts, 



Filled, as a dream, the wide waters ; the rivers sang on 

their channels ; ^° 

Laugh'd on their shores the hoarse seas ; the yearning 

ocean swelled uj^ward ; 
Young life lowed through the meadows, the woods, and 

the echoing mountains. 
Wandered bleating in valleys, and warbled on blossom- 
ing branches. 

* * * * * 



UxTHFi the song, O my soul ! the flight and return of 

l*ioi)het and Priest, who scattered abroad both evil and 

Huge wasteful empires founded, and hallowed slow 

Soul-withering, but crushed the blasphemous rites of the 

And idolatrous Christians. — For veiling the Gospel of 

They, the best corrui)ting, hatl made it worse than the 

Wherefore llea\en decreed th' intluiNJaNt warrior of 

Choosing good from inicpiity ratlier than evil from 

Loud the tunmll iuMrcca surrounding the fane of the 

idol ; — 
Naked and prostrate tlie priesthood were laid — the 

jieople with mad shouts 
Thundering now. and now with saddest uhilation 
Flew, as over tlic channel of rock-stone the ruinous 

Shatters its watiix abreast, and in mazy uproar 

Rushes dividuous all — all rushing impetuous onward. 

1 799. 


[from matthisson] 

Hear, my beloved, an old Milesian story ! — 
High and embosomed in congregated laurels 
Glimmered a Temple upon a breezy headland ; 
In the dim distance amid the skiey billows 
Rose a fair Island ; the god of flocks had blest it. 
From the far shores of the bleat -resounding island 
Oft by the moonlight a little boat came floating, 
Came to the sea-cave beneath the breezy headland. 
Where amid myrtles a pathway stole in mazes 
Up to the groves of the high embosomed Temple ; 
There in a thicket of dedicated roses. 
Oft did a Priestess, as lovely as a vision. 
Pouring her soul to the son of Cytherea, 
Pray him to hover around the slight canoe-boat. 
And with invisible pilotage to guide it 
Over the dusk wave, until the nightly Sailor 
Shivering with ecstasy sank upon her bosom. 




Strongly it bears us along in swelling and limitless 

Nothing before and nothing behind but the sky and the 





In tlio Hexameter rises the fountain's silverv column ; 
In the Pentameter aye falling in melody back. 



From his brimstone bed at break of day 

A walking the Devil is gone. 
To visit his snug little farm the Earth 

And see how his stock goes on. 


Over the hill and over the dale 

And he went over the plain. 
And backward and forward he switched his long tail 

As a (lentleman switches his cane. 


And how then was the Devil dressed ? 

Oh I he w;t^ in his Sunday's best : 

His jacket was red anil his breeches were blue. 

And there was a hole where the tail came through. 


He >aw .1 I.awv«M" killiiif; a viju-r 

On a dung-hill hard l)y his own stable, 

And the Devil smiled, for it put him in mind 
Of Cain and his brother, Abel. 



He saw an apothecary on a white horse* 

Ride by on his vocations ; 
And the Devil thought of his old Friend 
Death in the Revelations. 


He saw a cottage with a double coach-house, 

A cottage of gentility ! 
And the Devil did grin, for his darling sin 

Is pride that apes humility. 


He peep'd into a rich bookseller's shop, 
Quoth he, " We are both of one college, 

For I myself sate like a cormorant once 
Hard by the tree of knowledge." t 

* "And I looked, and behold a pale horse : and his name that 
sat on him was Death." — Rev. ch. vi. 8. [Note in Morning 
Post, September 6, 1799.] 

t And all amid them stood the tree of life 

High eminent, blooming ambrosial fruit 

Of vegetable gold (query paper-money :) and next to Life 

Our Death, the tree of knowledge, grew fast by. — 

So clomb this first grand thief — 
Thence up he flew, and on the tree of life 
Sat like a cormorant. — Paradise Lost, IV. 

The allegory here is so apt, that in a catalogue of various 
readings obtained from collating the I\ISS. one might expect to 
find it noted, that for " life " Cod. quid, habeiit, "" 
Though indeed the trade, i.e., the bibliopolic, so called /car' 
e^oX^"' niay be regarded as life sensu eminentiori ; a sug- 
gestion which I owe to a young retailer in the hosiery line, who, 
on hearing a description of the net profits, dinner-parties, country 
houses, &c., of the trade, exclaimed, " Ay ! that's what I call 
Life now ! " — This " Life, our Death," is thus happily contrasted 
with the fruits of Authorship — Sic nos non nobis mellificamus 

Of this poem, which with the Fire, Famine, and Slaughter 
first appeared in the Morning Post, the ist, 2nd, 3rd, 9th, and 
16th stanzas were dictated by Mr. Southey. If any one should 





Down the river did glide, with wind and with tide, 

A pig. with vast celerity ; 
And the Devil looked wise as he saw how the while, 
It cut its own throat. " There ! " quoth he with a 

Goes " England's commercial prosperity" 


As he went through Cold-Bath Fields he saw 

A sf)litary cell ; 
And tile Devil was pleased, for it gave him a hint 

For improving his prisons in Hell. 


He saw a Turnkey in a trice 

Fetter a troublesome blade — 
" Nimbly," <]U()th he, " do the fingers move 

If a man be l)ut used to his trade." 


He saw the same turnkey unfetter a man 

Willi but little expetlition, 
Wliicli put him in mind of the long debate 

On the Slave Trade Abolition. 


He saw an old acquaintance 

As he passed bv a Methodist meeting ; — 
She lioUls a consecratetl key. 

Ami the Devil nods her a greeting. 

ask who (ifiUTal meant, the .\uthor bt-gs leave to inform liim. 

tluit he once did see a red-faced person in a dream whom i)v the 
ilress lie took lor a tieneral ; hut he mif'lit have been mistaken, 
and most certainly he tlid not hear any names mentioned. In 
simple verity, the Author never meant any one. or mdeed any- 
tliiiif^. but to put a conchidinj^ stanza to his ilo^grel.i 

i " This anecdote is related by that most interesting of the 
Devil's Bio^rapliers. Mr. John Milton, in his Punidise I.nsl. and 
we hav«- hen- the Devil's own testimony to the truth and accuracy 
of it."— [Note in Morinm; I'osl.] 



She turned up her nose, and said, 

" Avaunt ! my name's ReHgion," 
And she looked to [Mr. Wilberforce] 

And leer'd hke a love-sick pigeon. 


He saw a certain minister 

(A minister to his mind) 
Go up into a certain House, 

With a majority behind. 


The Devil quoted Genesis, 

Like a very learned clerk, 
How " Noah and his creeping things 

Went up into the Ark." 


He took from the poor, 

And he gave to the rich, 
And he shook hands with a Scotchman, 

For he was not afraid of the 


General 's burning face 

He saw with consternation. 
And back to Hell his way did he take, 
For the Devil thought by a slight mistake. 

It was General Conflagration. 



Nor cold, nor stern, my soul ! yet I detest 

These scented Rooms, where, to a gaudy throng, 

Ili-avcs the proud Harlot her distended breast, 
In intricacies of laborious song. 

These feel not Music's genuine power, nor deign 
To melt at Nature's passion-warbleil jilaint ; 

But when the long-breathed singer's uptrilled strain 
Bursts in a squall — they gape for wonderment. 

Hark ! the deep buzz ot \anity and Hate ! 

Scornful, yet envious, with self-torturing sneer 
Mv lady eyes some maid of humbler state, 

W'hilr the pert Cajitain. or the primmer Priest, 

Prattles accordant scandal in her ear. 
O give me, from this heartless scene released, 

To hear ovu' oKl musician, blinil and gray. 
(Whom stretching from my nurse's arms I kissed.) 

His Scottish tunes ami warlike marches play. 
By moonshine, on the balmy sunnner-niglit. 

Till' while I dance amitl the teiUlcd hay 
With mcrr) maids, whose ringlets toss in light. 



Or lies the purple evening on the bay 
Of the calm glossy lake, O let me hide 

Unheard, unseen, behind the alder-trees, 
For round their roots the fisher's boat is tied. 

On whose ti"im seat doth Edmund stretch at ease, 
And while the lazy boat sways to and fro, 

Breathes in his flute sad airs, so wild and slow, 
That his own cheek is wet with quiet tears. 

But O, dear Anne ! when midnight wind careers, 
And the gust pelting on the out-house shed 
Makes the cock shrilly on the rain-storm crow, 
To hear thee sing some ballad full of woe, 
Ballad of ship-wrecked sailor floating dead. 
Whom his own true-love buried in the sands ! 

Thee, gentle woman, for thy voice remeasures 
Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures 

The things of Nature utter ; birds or trees, 
Or moan of ocean-gale in weedy caves. 
Or where the stift grass mid the heath-plant waves, 

Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze. 



All thoughts, all passions, all delights, 
Whatever stirs this mortal frame, 
All are but ministers of Love, 
And feed his sacred tlame. 

Oft in my wakinf; dreams do I 
Live o'er aj^ain that happy hour, 
When midway on tiie mount I la}', 
Beside the ruined tower. 

The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene. 
Had blended with the lights ot eve ; 
And she was there, my hoi)e, my joy, 
Mv own dear Genevieve ! 

She leant against the armed man, 
The statue of the armed knight ; 
She stood and listened to my lay. 
Amid the lingering light. 

Few sonows hath she of her own. 
My hope ! my joy ! my Genevieve ! 
She loves me best, whene'er I sing 
The songs that make her grieve. 

I played a soft and doleful air, 
I sang an old and moving story — 
An old ruilo song, that suited well 
That ruin wikl and hoary. 

She listened with a flitting blush. 
With tlowncast eyes and modi'st grace ; 
^^)r well sill' kni'W, I could not choose 
But gaze u|)on her face. 

1 told lu-r ot the Knight, that wore 
Upon his shii'ld a binning brand : 
And that for ten long years he wooed 
The I.adv of tlic Land. 





I told her how he pined ; and ah ! 
The deep, the low, the pleading tone 
With which I sang another's love, 
Interpreted my own. 

T'he listened with a flitting blush, 
With downcast eyes, and modest grace ; 
And she forgave me that I gazed 
Too fondly on her face ! 

But when I told the cruel scorn 
That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, 
And that he crossed the mountain-woods, 
Nor rested day nor night ; 

That sometimes from the savage den. 
And sometimes from the darksome shade, 
And sometimes starting up at once 
In green and sunny glade, — • 


300 LU\E 

There came and looked him in the face 
An Angel beautiful and l)right ; ^^ 

And that he knew it was a Fiend, 
This miserable Knight ! 

And that unknowing what he did, 
He leaped amid a murderous band, 
And saved trom outrage worse than death 
The Lady ol the Land ; — 

And how she wept, and clasped his knees ; 
And how she tended him in vain — 
And ever strove to exi)iatc 

The scorn that crazed his brain ; — '" 

And that she nursed him in a cave ; 
And how his madness went away. 
When on the yellow forest-leaves 
A dying man he lay. 


His dying words — but when I reached 
That tcnderest strain of all the ditty. 
My faltering voice and pausing harp 
Disturbed her soul with pity ! 

All impulses of soul and sense 
Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve ; "" 

The music, and the doleful tale, 
The rich and balmy eve ; 

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, 
An undistinguishable throng. 
And gentle wishes long subdued. 
Subdued and cherished long ! 

She wept with j)ity and delight. 

She blushed with love, and virgin-shame ; 

And like the murmur of a dream. 

T hi Mrd her breathe my name. **" 


Her bosom heaved — she stepped aside, 
As conscious of my look she stepped — 
Then suddenly, with timorous eye, 
She fled to me and wept. 

She half enclosed me with her arms, 
She pressed me with a meek embrace ; 
And bending back her head, looked up. 
And gazed upon my face. 

'Twas partly Love, and partly Fear, 
And partly 'twas a bashful art, ^'^ 

That I might rather feel, than see. 
The swelling of her heart. 

I calmed her fears, and she was calm, 
And told her love with virgin pride ; 
And so I won my Genevieve, 

My bright and beauteous Bride, 



How sweet, when crimson colours dart 

Across a breast of snow. 
To see that you are in the heart 

That beats and throbs below. 

All heaven is in a maiden's blush. 
In which the soul doth speak, 

That it was you that sent the flush 
Into the maiden's cheek. 

Large steadfast eyes ! eyes gently rolled 

In shades of changing blue. 
How sweet are they, if they behold 

No dearer sight than you ! 


And can a li[) more richly glow, 

Or be more fair than this ? 
The world will surely answer, No ! 

I, Sappho, answer, Yes ! 

Then grant one smile, tho' it should mean 

A thing of doubtful birth ; 
That I may say these eyes have seen 

The fairest face on earth ! 





" And li.iil tin- Cliapel ! hail the Platform wilil ! 
Where Tell directed tho avcnpinK Dart. 
With well sfriinK <irm. tiiat first jireserved his Child, 
Then aimed tiie arrow at the Tyrant's heart." 

Si'M-NDOfu's fondlv-fostered child! 
And did you hail tho Platlorm wikl. 

Whore once the Austrian fell 

l'.( ncath the shaft of Tell ^ 
O Lady, nurseil in i)omp and plcitsure ! 
Whence learned you that heroic measure ? 

I,i;,'ht as a dream your (la\s (heir circlets ran. 

I'^rom all that teaches l^rotherhood to Man 

Far, far removed ! from want, from ho|x\ from fear I 

Enchanting music lulled \oin" infant ear. ^" 

Obeisanc*', praises soothed yoiu' infant heart : 

Emblazonments and old ancestral ciests, 
With many a bright obtrusive form of art. 

Detained \our »"\e from nature : stalcK' vests, 


That veiling strove to deck your charms divine, 

Rich viands, and the pleasurable wine. 

Were yours unearned by toil ; nor could you see 

The unenjo\Tng toiler's misery. 

And 3'et, free Nature's uncorrupted child, 

You hailed the Chapel and the Platform wild, '^^ 

Where once the Austrian fell 

Beneath the shaft of Tell ! 
O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure ! 
Whence learned you that heroic measure ? 

There crowd your finely-fibred frame 

All living faculties of bliss ; 
And Genius to your cradle came. 
His forehead wreathed with lambent flame, 
And bending low, with godlike kiss 
Breath'd in a more celestial life ; '" 

But boasts not many a fair compeer 

A heart as sensitive to joy and fear ? 
And some, perchance, might wage an equal strife. 
Some few, to nobler being wrought, 
Co-rivals in the nobler gift of thought. 
Yet these delight to celebrate 
Laurelled War and plumy State ; 
Or in verse and music dress 
Tales of rustic happiness — 
Pernicious Tales ! insidious Strains ! ■*" 

That steel the rich man's breast. 
And mock the lot unblest, 
The sordid vices and the abject pains, 
Which evermore must be 
The doom of Ignorance and Penury ! 
But you, free Nature's uncorrupted child. 
You hailed the chapel and the Platform wild. 
Where once the Austrian fell ■ 
Beneath the shaft of Tell ! 
O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure ! ^" 

Whence learned you that heroic measure ? 

You were a Mother ! That most holy name. 
Which Heaven and Nature bless. 


I inav not vilclv prostitute to those 

W'liosc Infants owe them less 
Than the poor Caterpillar owes 
Its gaudy Parent Fly. 
"^'ou were a Mother ! at your bosom fed 

Tiie Babes that loved you. You. with laughing eye. 
Each twilight-thought, each nascent feeling read, ••' 

Which you yourself created. Oh ! delight ! 
A second time to be a Mother, 

Without the Mother's bitter groans : 
Another thought, and yet another, 

By touch, or taste, by looks or tones 
O'er the growing Sense to roll. 
The Mother of your infant's Soul ! 
The Angel of the Earth, who, while he guides 

His chariot-jilanet round the goal of day, 
All trembling gazes on the Eye of God, "" 

A moment turned his awful face away ; 
And as he viewed you, from his aspect sweet 
New influences in your being rose, 
Blest Intuitions and Communions fleet 

Witli living Nature, in her joys and woes ! 
Tliencoforth your soul rejoiced to see 
The shrine of social Libertv ! 
O beautiful ! O Nature's'child ! 
'Twas thence you hailed the Platform wild. 
Where once the Austrian fell ^^ 

Beneath the shaft of Tell ! 
O Lady, nursed in j^omp and pleasure ! 
Thence learned you that heroic measure. 

1 799. 


The Shepherds went their hasty way, 

And found the lowly stable-shed 
Where the Virgin-Mother lay : 

And now they checked their eager tread, 
For to the Babe, that at her bosom clung, 
A Mother's song the Virgin Mother sung. 


They told her how a glorious light, 

Streaming from a heavenly throng, 
Around them shone, suspending night ! ^^^^ 
While sweeter than a mother's song^^.^--"^ ^'^ 

Blest Angels heralded the Saviour's birth, 
Glory to God on high ! and Peace on Earth. 


She listened to the tale divine. 

And closer still the Babe she pressed ; 
And while she cried, the Babe is mine ! 
The milk rushed faster to her breast : 
Joy rose within her, like a summer's morn ; 
Peace, Peace on Earth ! the Prince of Peace is born. 


Thou Mother of the Prince of Peace, 

Poor, simple, and of low estate ! ^" 

That Strife should vanish. Battle cease, 
O why should this thy soul elate ? 

Sweet Music's loudest note, the Poet's story, 

Didst thou ne'er love to hear of Fame and Glory ? 


And is not War a youthful King, 

A stately Hero clad in mail ? 
Beneath his footsteps laurels spring ; 

Him Earth's majestic monarchs hail 

30s u 



Their Friend, their Playmate ! and liis lx)ld bright eye 
Compels the maiden's love-confessing sigh. ^° 


" Tell this in some more courtly scene, 

To maids and youths in robes of state ! 
I am a woman poor and mean, 
And therefore is my Soul elate. 
War is a ruffian, all with f^uilt defiled. 
That from the aged Father tears his child ! 


Amurderous fiend, by fiends adored, 
HX kills the sire and starves the son ; 
The husband kills, and from her board 
Steals all his widow's toil had won ; 
Plunders (lod's world of beauty ; rends away 
All safety from the night, all comfort from the day. 


" Then wisely is my soul elate. 

That Strife should vanish. Battle cease ; 
I'm poor and of a low estate, 

The Mother of the Prince of Peace. 
Joy rises in me, like a summer's morn : 
Peace, T*eace on Earth ! the Prince of Peace is born." 





[As printed in the Morning Post for January lo, 1800] 

To the Editor of the Morning Post 

Mr. EDiTOR.^An unmetrical letter from Talleyrand to Lord 
Grenville has already appeared, and from an authority too high 
to be questioned : otherwise I could adduce some arguments 
for the exclusive authenticity of the following metrical epistle. 
The very epithet which the wise antients used, aurea carniina, 
might have been supposed likely to have determined the choice 
of the French minister in favour of verse ; and the rather when 
we recollect that this phrase of golden verses is applied emphati- 
cally to the works of that philosopher who imposed silence on all 
with whom he had to deal. Besides is it not somewhat improb- 
able that Talleyrand should have preferred prose to rhyme, when 
the latter alone has got the chink ? Is it not likewise curious that 

(in our official answer no notice whatever is taken of the Chief 
Consul, Bonaparte, as if there had been no such person existing ; 
notwithstanding that his existence is pretty generally admitted, 
nay that some have been so rash as to believe that he has created 
as great a sensation in the world as Lord Grenville, or even the 
Duke of Portland ? But the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Talley- 
rand, is acknowledged, which, in our opinion, could not have 
happened had he written only that insignificant prose-letter, 
which seems to precede Bonaparte's, as in old romances a dwarf 
always ran before to proclaim the advent or arrival of knight or 
giant. That Talleyrand's character and practices more resemble 
those of some regular Governments than Bonaparte's I admit ; 
but this of itself does not appear a satisfactory explanation. 
However, let the letter speak for itself. The second line is 
supererogative in syllables, whether from the oscitancy of the 
transcriber, or from the trepidation which might have over- 
powered the modest Frenchman, on finding himself in the act of 
writing to so great a man, I shall not dare to determine. A few 
Notes are added by 

Your servant, 
, Gnome. 

P.S. — As mottoes are now fashionable, especially if taken 
from out-of-the-way books, you may prefix, if you please, the 
following lines from Sidonius ApoUinaris : 

" Saxa, et robora, corneasque fibras 
Mollit dulciloqua canorus arte ! " 




My Lord ! though your Lordship repel deviation 
From forms long established, yet with high considera- 
I plead for the honour to hope, that no blame 
Will attach, should this letter begin with my name. 
I dared not presume on your Lordship to bounce. 
But thought it more e.xquisife first to announce ! 
My Lord ! I've the honour to be Talleyrand, 
And the letter's from me ! you'll not draw back your 

Nor yet take it up by the rim in dismay, 
As boys pick up ha'pence on April fool day. '" 

I'm no Jacobin foul, or red-hot Cordelier 
That your Lordshij^'s »;/gauntleted fingers need fear 
An infection or burn ! Believe me, 'tis true. 
With a scorn like another I look down on the crew 
That bawl and hold up to the mob's detestation 
The most ilolicate wish for a silent persuasion. 
A form long-established these Terrorists call 
Bribes, jicrjury. theft, and the devil and all ! 
And yet spite of all that tlie Moralist * prates, 
'Tis the keystone and cement of civilised States. -" 

Those American Reps /t And i' faith, they were 

serious ! 
It shocked us at Paris, like something mysterious. 
That men who've a Congress — But no more of 't ! I'm 

To have stood so distinct from the Jacobin crowd. 

* This surcastn on tlu- writiiif^s of moralists is. in nciural, 
extremely just ; but had TalUyrainl cuntiiiucil long enough in 
ICngland, he might have (ouik! an honourable exception in the 
second vt)lume of Dr. I'aley's .Moral Philosophy ; in which both 
Secret Influence, and all the other Established Forms, are justified 
and placed in their true light. 

f .\ fashionable abbreviation in tlie higher circles for Re- 
pulilicans. Thus Mob was originally the Mobility. 


My Lord ! though the vulgar in wonder be lost at 
My transfigurations, and name me Apostate, 
Such a meaningless nickname, which never incensed me, 
Cannot prejudice you or your Cousin against me : 
I'm Ex-bishop. What then ? Burke himself would 

That I left not the Church — 'twas the Church that left 
me. ^^ 

My titles prelatic I loved and retained, 
As long as what / meant by Prelate remained : 
And tho' Mitres no longer will pass in our mart, 
I'm episcopal still to the core of my heart. 
No time from my name this my motto shall sever : 
'Twill be " non sine pidvere palma " * for ever ! 

Your goodness, my Lord, I conceive as excessive. 
Or I dared not present you a scroll so digressive ; 
And in truth with my pen thro' and thro' I should 

strike it ; 
But I hear that your Lordship's own style is just like 

it. 4« 

Dear my Lord, we are right : for what charms can be 

In a thing that goes straight like an old Roman road ? 
The tortoise crawls straight, the hare doubles about ; 
And the true line of beauty still winds in and out. 
It argues, my Lord ! of fine thoughts such a brood in 

To split and divide into heads multitudinous, 
While charms that surprise (it can ne'er be denied us) 
Sprout forth from each head, like the ears from King 

Were a genius of rank, like a commonplace dunce, 
Compell'd to drive on to the main point at once, ^'^ 

What a plentiful vintage of initiations f 
Would Noble Lords lose in your Lordship's orations. 

* Palma non sine pulvere. In plain English, an itching palm, 
not without the yellow dust. 

f The word Initiations is borrowed Irom the new Constitution, 
and can only mean, in plain English, introductory matter. If 
the manuscript would bear us out, we should propose to read the 
line thus — " What a plentiful Verbage, what Initiations ! " inas- 
much as Vintage must necessarily refer to wine, really or figura- 



My fancy transports me ! As mute as a mouse, 
And as fleet as a pigeon, I'm borne to the house 
Where all those who ari^ Lords, from father to son, 
Discuss the affairs of all those who are none. 
I behold you, my Lord ! of your feelings quite full, 
'Fore the woolsack arise, like a sack full of wool ! 
You rise on each Anti-Cirenvillian Member, 
Short, thick and blustrous, like a day in November ! 
Short in person, I mean : for the length of your 

Fame herself, that most famous reporter, ne'er reaches. 
Lo ! Patience beholds you contemn her brief reign. 
And Time, that all-panting toil'd after in vain, 
(Like the Beldam who raced for a smock with her 

Drops and cries : " Were such lungs e'er assigned to 

a man-child ? " 
Your strokes at her vitals pale Truth has confess'd, 
And Zeal unresisted entempests your breast ! t 
Though some noble Lords may be wishing to suj). 
Your merit self-conscious, my Loril, keeps you up, '" 
Unextinguish'd and swoln. as a balloon of paper 
Keeps aloft by the smoke of its own farthing ta}>er. 
Ye siXTEKNS I of Scotland, yoiu" snuffs ye must trim ; 
Your (ieminies, lix'd stars of England I grow dim, 

lively ; ami we cannot piicss what sp?cics Lord Gronville's 
eloquence may be supposed to resemble, unless, indeed, it be 
Cowslip wine. \ slashing critic to wliom we read the manu- 
script, projiosed to read, " What a plenty of Flowers — what 
initiations ! " and supposes it may alUule indiscriminately to 
I'oppy Flowers, or Flour of Brimstone. The most moilest 
emendation. ]iorhn|is, would be this — for \intav;e reail \entage. 

♦ We cannot sutlicii-ntly ailmire the accuracy of this simile. 
For as Lord Cirenville. though short, is certainly not the shortest 
man in tlu- House, even so is it with the days in November. 

■f An evident j)laj;iarism of the l'".\ Bishop's from l>r. John- 
son — 

" F'.\istence saw him spurn her boumleil rei^n, 
.\nd i)antiuji Time toiled after him in vain : 
His powerful strokes |)residin>j Truth confessed. 
And unresisting Pa.ssion storm'il the brcist." 

* Tliis line and the following are involved in an almost Lyco- 
phrontic tenebricosity. t)n repeating them, however, to an 
lllumiuaul, whose confidence I pcssess, he informed me (and he 


And but for a form long-establish' d, no doubt 
Twinkling faster and faster, ye all would go otil. 

Apropos, my dear Lord ! a ridiculous blunder 

Of some of our Journalists caused us some wonder : 

It was said, that in aspect malignant and sinister, 

In the Isle of Great Britain a great Foreign Minister ^^ 

Turned as pale as a journeyman miller's frock coat is 

On observing a star that appeared in Bootes ! 

When the whole truth was this (0 those ignorant brutes) ! 

Your Lordship had made his appearance in boots : 

You, my Lord, with your star, sat in boots, and the 

Ambassador thereupon thought fit to vanish. 
But perhaps, dear my Lord, among other worse crimes, 
The whole was no more than a lie of The Times. 
It is monstrous, my Lord ! in a civilised state 
That such Newspaper rogues should have license to prate. "" 
Indeed printing in general — but for the taxes, 
Is in theory false and pernicious in praxis ! 
You and I, and your Cousin, and Abbe Sieyes, 
And all the great Statesmen that live in these days, 
Are agreed that no nation secure is from vi'lence 
Unless all who must think are maintained all in silence. 
This printing, my Lord — but 'tis useless to mention, 
What we both of us think — 'twas a cursed invention 
And Germany might have been honestly prouder 
Had she left it alone, and found out only powder. ^^^ 
My Lord ! when I think of our labours and cares 
Who rule the Department of foreign affairs, 

ought to know, for he is a Tallow-chandler by trade) that certain 
candles go by the name of sixteens. This explains the whole, 
the Scotch Peers are destined to burn out— and so are candles ! 
The English are perpetual, and are therefore styled Fixed Stars ! 
The \yord Geminies is, we confess, still obscure to us ; though we 
venture to suggest that it may perhaps be a metaphor (daringly 
sublime) for the two eyes which noble Lords do in general possess. 
It is certainly used by the poet Fletcher in this sense, in the 31st 
stanza of his Purple Island : — 

" What ! shall I then need seek a patron out, 
Or beg a favour from a mistress' eyes, 

To fence my song against the vulgar rout, 
And shine upon me with her geminies ? " 

312 SONG 

And how witli their hbels these journahsts bore us, 
Thouf^h Kage I acknowledge than Scorn less decorous ; 
Yet their presses and types I could shiver in splinters. 
Those printers' black Devils ! those Devils of Printers I 
In case of a peace — but perhaps it were better 
To proceed to the absolute point of my letter : 
For the deep wounds of France, Bonaparte, my master. 
Has found out a new sort of basilicon plaister. ^'° 

But your time, my dear Lord ! is your nation's best 

I've intruded already too long on your leisure ; 
If so, I entreat you with penitent sorrow 
To pause, and resume the remainder to-morrow. 




Tin-: ilond doth gather, the greenwood roar, 

The danisei paci's along the shore ; 

The l)illows they tumble with might, with might. 

And she flings out her voice to the darksome night ; 

Her bosom is swelling with sorrow. 
The world it is eiupty. the heart will die. 
There's nothing to wish for beneath the sky ; 
Thou H<)l\' One. call tli\' child awa\- ! 
I've lived ami loved, ami that was to-ilav — 

Make ready my grave-clothes to-morrow I 



The Poet in his lone yet genial hour 

Gives to his eye a magnifying power : 

Or rather he emancipates his eyes 

From the black shapeless accidents of size — • 

In unctuous cones of kindling coal, 

Or smoke upwreathing from the pipe's trim bole, 

His gifted ken can see 

Phantoms of sublimity. 



The tedded hay, the first fruits of the soil, 

The tedded hay and corn-sheaves in one field. 

Show summer gone, ere come. The foxglove tall 

Sheds its loose purple bells, or in the gust. 

Or when it bends beneath the up-springing lark. 

Or mountain-finch alighting. And the rose 

(In vain the darling of successful love) 

Stands, like some boasted beauty of past years, 

The thorns remaining, and the flowers all gone. 

Nor can I find, amid my lonely walk 

By rivulet, or spring, or wet road-side, 

That blue and bright-eyed floweret of the brook, 

Hope's gentle gem, the sweet Forget-me-not ! * 

So will not fade the flowers which Emmeline 

With delicate fingers on the snow-white silk 

Has worked, (the flowers which most she knew I loved,) 

And, more beloved than they, her auburn hair. 

* One of the names (and meriting to be the only one) of the 
Myosotis Scovpioides Palustris, a flower from six to twelve inches 
high, with blue blossom and bright yellow eye. It has the same 
name over the whole Empire of Germany ( Vergissmein nichi) 
and we believe, in Denmark and Sweden. 




In the cool mornin/^ twilight, early waked 
By her full bosom's joyless restlessness, 
Softly she rose, and lightly stole along, 
Down the slope coppice to the woodbine bower, 
Whose rich flowers, swinging in the morning breeze, 
Over their dim fast-moving shadows hung, 
Making a quiet image of disquiet 
In the smooth, scarcely moving river-pool. 
There, in that bower where first she owned her love. 
And let me kiss my own warm tear of joy 
From off her glowmg cheek, she sate and stretched 
The silk upon the frame, and worked lier name 
Between tlie Moss-Rose and Forget-me-not — 
Her own dear name, with her own auburn hair 
That forced to wander till sweet spring return, 
I yet might ne'er forget her smile, her look, 
Her voice, (that even in her mirthful mood 
Has made me wish to steal away and weep,) 
Nor yet the entrancement of that ma den kiss 
With which she promised, that when spring returned, 
She would resign one' half of that dear name. 
And own thenceforth no other name but mine ! 



Tranqiillitv ! thou better name 

Than all the family of Fame ! 

Thou ne'er wilt leave mv riper age 

To low intrigue, or factious rage ; 

For oh ! dear chilil of thoughtful Truth. 

To thee I ga\e mv early youth. 
Antl left the bark, and blest the steadfast shore. 
Ere yet the TemjM'st ro<e and scared me with its roar. 

Will) \,\{c and lingi ring siu-ks thv shrine. 
On him i)ut seklom. Power divine, 
Thy si>irit rests ! Satiety 
And Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee, 


Mock the tired worldling. Idle Hope 

And dire Remembrance interlope, 
To vex the feverish slumbers of the mind : 
The bubble floats before, the spectre stalks behind. 

But me thy gentle hand will lead 
At morning through the accustomed mead ; 
And in the sultry summer's heat 
Will build me up a mossy seat ; 
And when the gust of Autumn crowds. 
And breaks the busy moonlight clouds. 
Thou best the thought canst raise, the heart attune. 
Light as the busy clouds, calm as the gliding Moon. 

The feeling heart, the searching soul, 

To thee I dedicate the whole ! 

And while within myself I trace 

The greatness of some future race, 

Aloof with hermit-eye I scan 

The present works of present man — 
A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile, 
Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile ! 




On stern Blencartha's perilous height 

The winds are tyrannous and strong ; 
And flashing forth unsteady light 
From stern Blencartha's skiey height. 

As loud the torrents throng ! 
Beneath the Moon, in gentle weather, 
They bind the Earth and Sky together. 
But oh ! the Sky and all its forms, how quiet ! 
The things that seek the Earth, how full of noise 
and riot ! 





As late on Skiddaw's mount I la}' supine, 
Midway the ascent, in that repose di\ine 
When tlie soul cenlretl in the Heart's recess 
Hath (puffed its Jill of Nature's loveliness. 
Vet still beside the fountain's nKutj;e will sta\- 

And fain would thirst again, aji^ain to quaff ; 
Then when the tear, slow travelling on its way, 

I'ills up the wrinkles of a silent laugh — 
In that]sweet inooil of sad and humorous thought 
A form within me rose, within me wrought 
With such strong magic, that I cried aloud, 





"Thou ancient Skiddaw by thy hehn of cloud, 
And by thy many-coloured chasms deep, 
And by their shadows that for ever sleep, 
By yon small flaky mists that love to creep 
Along the edges of those spots of light. 
Those sunny islands on thy smooth green height, 
And by yon shepherds with their sheep, 
And dogs and boys, a gladsome crowd, 
That rush even now with clamour loud '^° 

Sudden from forth thy topmost cloud. 
And by this laugh, and by this tear, 
I would, old Skiddaw, she were here ! 
A lady of sweet song is she, 
Her soft blue eye was made for thee ! 

ancient Skiddaw, by this tear, 

1 would, I would that she were here ! " 

Then ancient Skiddaw, stern and proud. 

In sullen majesty replying. 
Thus spake from out his helm of cloud 

(His voice was like an echo dying !) : — • 
" She dwells belike in scenes more fair. 
And scorns a mount so bleak and bare." 

I only sighed when this I heard. 

Such mournful thoughts within me stirr'd 

That all my heart was faint and weak, 

So sorely was I troubled ! 
No laughter wrinkled on my, cheek, 

But O the tears were doubled ! 

But ancient Skiddaw green and high 
Heard and understood my sigh ; 
And now, in tones less stern and rude. 
As if he wished to end the feud. 
Spake he, the proud response renewing 
(His voice was like a monarch wooing) : — 
" Nay, but thou dost not know her might. 

The pinions of her soul how strong ! 
But many a stranger in my height 

Hath sung to me her magic song. 



Sending forth his ecstasy 

In her divinest melody, 
And hence I know her soul is free, 
She is where'er she wills to be, 
Unfetter'd by mortality ! 
Now to the ' haunted beach ' can fly. 

Beside the threshold scourged with waves, 
Now where the maniac wildly raves, 
' Pale moon, than spectre of (he sky ! ' 
No wind that hunies o'er my height 
Can travel with so swift a flight. 

I too, methinks. might merit 

The presence of her spirit ! 

To me too might belong 
The honour of her song and witching melody. 

Which most resembles me. 

Soft, various, and sublime, 

Exempt from wrongs of Time ! " 

Tims spake the mighty Mount, and I 
M.idi' answer with a deep-drawn sigh : — 
" Thou ancient Skiddaw, by this tear. 
I would, I would that she were here ! " 






Thf, Devil believes that the Lord will come, 
Stealing a march without beat of drum. 
About the same time tiuit he came last 
On an old Christm;Ls-day in a snowy blast : 

Till he bills the trump sound neither body nor soul 

For the dead men's heads have slipped under their 


Oh ! ho ! brother^Bard, in our churchyard, 

Both beds and bolsters are soft and green ; 

Save one alone, and that's of stone, 

And under it lies a Counsellor keen. 
This tomb would be square, if it were not too long ; 
And 'tis rail'd round with iron, tall, spear-like, and 

This fellow from Aberdeen hither did skip 
With a waxy face and a blubber lip. 
And a black tooth in front, to show in part 
What was the colour of his whole heart. 

This Counsellor sweet, 

This Scotchman complete, 

(The Devil scotch him for a snake !), 

I trust he lies in his grave awake. 
On the sixth of January, 

When all around is white with snow 

As a Cheshire yeoman's dairy, 
Brother Bard, ho ! ho ! 
Believe it, or no. 

On that stone-tomb to you I'll show 

After sunset, and before cock-crow, 

Two round spaces clear of snow. 
I swear by our Knight and his forefathers' souls, 
That in size and shape they are just like the holes 

In the large house of privity 

Of that ancient family. 
On those two places clear of snow 
There have sat in the night for an hour or so, 
Before sunrise, and after cock-crow 
(He kicking his heels, she cursing her corns. 
All to the tune of the wind in their horns), 

The Devil and his Grannam, 

With the snow-drift to fan 'em ; 
Expecting and hoping the trumpet to blow ; 
For they are cock-sure of the fellow below ! 



I HHARD a voice from Etna's side ; 

Where o'er a cavern's mouth 

That fronted to the south 
A chestnut spread its umbrage wide : 
A hermit or a monk the man might be ; 

Hut him I couKi not see : 
And thus tiie music flowed along. 
In melody most like to old Sicilian song : 

" There was a time when Earth, and Sea, and Skies, 

The bright green vale, and forest's dark recess, '" 

Witli all things, lay before mine eyes 

In steady loveliness : 
But now I feel, on Earth's uneasy scene, 

Such sorrows as will never cease ; — 

I only ask for peace ; 
If I must live to know that such a time has been ! " 
A silence tiien ensued : 

Till from the cavern came 

A voice ; — it was the same ! '^ 

And thus, in mournful tone, its drearv plaint renewed : 

" Last night, as o'er the sloping turf I trod, 

Tlie smooth green turf, to me a vision gave 
BeiKMth mine eyes, the sod — 

riie roof of Rosa's grave ! 
My heart has need with dreams like these to strive. 

For, wlu'ii I woke, beneath mine eyes I found 

The plot of mossy giDuiul, 
On which we oft have sat when Rosa was alive. — 
\\'h\- nmst the rock, and margin of the flood. 

W'liy nmst tlu- hills so man\- flow'rets bear, ^" 

Whose r.tlours to a murdcr'd maiden's blood 

Such sad resemblance wear ? — 

/ struck the w uiii.l. (his hand of mine ! 
For Oh, thou .M.iid divine. 
I loved to agony ' 

3 -J" 


The youth whom thou call'd'st thine 
Did never love hke me ! 

I " Is it the stormy clouds above 
That flashed so red a gleam ? 

On yonder downward ti'ickling stream ? — ■*" 

'Tis not the blood of her I love. — 

The sun torments me from his western bed, 
Oh, let him cease for ever to diffuse 
Those crimson spectre hues ! 
iOh, let me lie in peace, and be for ever dead ! " 

[Here ceased the voice. In deep dismay, 
[Down thro' the forest I pursued my way. 




God be with thee, gladsome Ocean ! 

How gladly greet I thee once more ! 
Ships, and waves, and ceaseless motion, 

And men rejoicing on thy shore. 

Dissuading spake the mild Physician, 

" Those briny waves for thee ai"e Death ! ' 

But my soul fulfilled her mission. 

And lo ! I breathe untroubled breath ! 

Fashion's pining Sons and Daughters, 
That seek the crowd they seem to fly, 

Trembhng they approach thy waters ; 
And what cares Nature, if they die ? 



Me a thousand liopes and j)leasures, 
A thousand recollections bland, 

Thouglits sublime, and stately measures, 
Revisit on thy echoing strand : 

Dreams, (the Soul herself forsaking). 
Tearful raptures, boyish mirth ; 

Silent adorations, making 

A blessed shadow of this Earth ! 

O ye hopes, that stir within me. 

Health comes with you from above ! 

God is with me, God is in me ! 
I cannot die, if Life be Love. 




Late, l.itc yi'stroen I saw the new Moon, 
With the olil Moon in her arms ; 
AntI I fear. I fear, my Master clear I 
We shall have a lieadly storm. 

B.M.I AD or Sir Patrick Spence. 


Will I if liie Hard was weather-wise, who made 
The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, 
This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence 
I'nrnuscd by winds, that |ily a busier trade 
Than those which mould yon clouil in la/y tlakes, 
Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes 
r|)on the strings of tliis .Molian lute, 
Which better far were mute. 
For lo ! the New-moon winter-bright ! 
And oversi)read with phantom light, '" 


(With swimming phantom hght o'erspread 

But rimmed and circled by a silver thread) 
I see the old moon in her lap, foretelling 

The coming on of rain and squally blast. 
And oh ! that even now the gust were swelling, 

And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast"! 
Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed, 

~And sent my soul abroad, 
Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give, -^ 

Mi^ht startle this dull pain, and make it move and live ! 


A grieXwithout a pang, void, dark, and drear, \ I 
A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief. 
Which finds no natural outlet, no relief, I ' 

In word, or sigh, or tear — 

Lady ! in this wan and heartless mood. 
To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd. 

All this long eve, so balmy and serene. 
Have I been gazing on the western sky. 

And its peculiar tint of yellow green : 
And still I gaze — and with how blank an eye ! ^^ 

And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars. 
That give away their motion to the stars ; 
Those stars, that glide behind them or between. 
Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen : 
Yon crescent Moon as fixed as if it grew 
In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue ; 

1 see them all so excellently fair, 

I see, not feel, how beautiful they are ! 


My genial spirits fail, 

And what can these avail *" 

To lift the smothering weight from off my breast ? 

It were a vain endeavour, 

Though I should gaze for ever 
On that green light that lingers in the west : 

II may n ot hopejrom outward forrns to win 
iThe passion andHthe Iife,"whose fountains are within. 





O Lady ! we receive but what we give, 
And in our life alone docs Nature live ; 
Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud ! 

And would we aught behold, of higher worth, *° 

Than that inanimate cold world allowed 
To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd, 

Ah ! from the soul itself must issue forth 
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud 

Enveloping the Earth — 
And from the soul itself must there be sent 

A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth, 
Of all sweet sounds the life and element I 

pure of heart ! thou need'st not ask of me 
What this strong music in the soul may be *" 

What, and wherein it doth exist. 
This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist. 
This beautiful and beauty-making power. 

Jov. virtuous Lady ! joy that ne'er was given. 
Save to the pure, and in flieir }:)urest hour. 
Life, and Life's EfHuence, Cloud at once and Shower, 
Joy. Lady I is the spirit and the ix>wer. 
\\ hlch, wedding Nature to us, gn-es in dower 

A new Earth and new Heaven, 
Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud — "° 

Joy is the sweet voice, Joy tiie luminous cloud — 

We in ourselves rejoice ! 
And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight. 

All melodies the echoes of (liat voice. 
All colours a •^uffusion^froai that light. 


There was a time wlien. though my ]iath was rough, 
This joy within me dalhed witli ilistress, 

And all misfortunes were but as the stuff 

Whence I'^ancy made me dreams of hapj)incss : 

i-'or Ho|)c grew lound me. like the twining \ine. •"* 

And fruits, and loli;i;;c not nu own, srcmeil mine. 


But now afflictions bow me down to earth : 
Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth, — 

But oh ! each visitation 
Suspends what nature gave me at my birth, 

^}• shaping spirit of Imagination. 
For not to think of what I needs must feel, 

But to be still and patient, all I can ; 
And, haply, by abstruse research to steal 

From my own nature all the natural Man — ^^ 

This was my sole resource, my only plan • 
Till that which suits a part infects the whole. 
And now is almost grown the habit of my Soul. 


Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind, 

Reality's dark dream ! 
I turn from you, and listen to the wind. 

Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream 
Of agony by torture lengthened out 
That lute sent forth ! Thou Wind, that ravest without, 

Bare crag, or mountain-tairn,* or blasted tree, ^'^^ 

Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb. 
Or lonely house, long held the witches' home, 

Methinks were fitter instruments for thee, 
Mad Lutanist ! who in this month of showers, 
X)f dark brown gardens, and of peeping flowers,^ 
Mak'st Devil's yule, with worse than wintry song, 
The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among. 

Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds ! A,i 
Thou mighty Poet, e'en to Frenzy bold ! 

What tell'st thou now about ? i^° 

'Tis of the rushing of an host in rout, 

With groans of trampled men, with smarting wounds — 
At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the 

But hush ! there is a pause of deepest silence ! 

* Taim is a small lake, generally if not always applied to the 
lakes up in the mountains, and which are the feeders of those 
in the vallies. This address to the Storm-wind will not appear 
extravagant to those who have heard it at night, and m a moun- 
tainous country. 



And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd, 
With ^Toans, and tremulous shuddcrings — all is over — 
It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud ! 

A tale of less affright. 

And tcmjiered with delight, 
As Otway's self had framed the tender lay — ^-° 

'Tisof a little child 

U})on a lonesome wild, 
Not far from home, but she hath lost her way : 
And now moans low in bitter grief and fear. 
Anil now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother 



'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep : 
Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep ! 
JViiiit her. gentle Sleep ! with wings of healing. 

And may this storm l)e but a mountain-birth, 
\ May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling, '^'' 
Silent as though they watched the sleeping Earth I 
With light heart may she rise, 
(iay fancy, cheerful eyes, 
\ Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice : 
\T<) her ma v all things hve, from pole to pole, 
Their life the etUlying of her living soul ! 

0_simple spirit, guided from alwve. 
Dear Lady ! friend devoutest of my choice, 
Thus mavest thou ever, evermore rejoice. 

1 80 J. 


Through weeds and thorns, and matted underwood 
I force my way ; now climb, and now descend 
O'er rocks, or bare or mossy, with wild foot 
Crushing the purple whorts ; while oft unseen, 
Hurrying along the drifted forest-leaves. 
The scared snake rustles. Onward still I toil, 
I know not, ask not whither ! A new joy, 
Lovely as light, sudden as summer-gust. 
And gladsome as the first-born of the spring, 
Beckons me on, or follows from behind. 
Playmate, or guide ! The master-passion quelled, 
I feel that I am free. With dun-red bark 




The fir-trt't.'s, and tin- uiifrequent slender oak. 
Forth from this tangle wild of bush and brake 
Soar up, and form a melancholy vault 
High o'er me, murmuring like a distant sea. 

Here Wisdom might resort, and here Remorse ; 

Here too the love-lorn Man. who, sick in soul, 

And of this busy human lu-art aweary, 

Worships the spirit of unconscious life '^° 

In tree or wild Hower. — Gentle Lunatic ! 

If so he might not wholly cease to be, 

He would far rather not be that he is ; 

But would be something, that he knows not of, 

In winds or waters, or among the rocks I 

But hence, fond wretch ! breathe not contagion here : 
No myrtle-walks are these : these are no groves 
Where Love dare loiter ! If in sullen mood 
He should stray hither, the low stumps shall gore 
His dainty feet, the briar and the thorn '" 

Make his plumes haggard. Like a wounded bird 
Easily caught, ensnare him, O ye Nymphs, 
Ye Oreads chaste, ye dusky Dryades I 
And you, ye Earth-winds ! you that make at morn 
The dew-drops quiver on the spiders' webs ! 
You, O ye wingless Airs ! that creep between 
The rigid stems of heath and bitten furze, 
Within whose scanty shade, at summer-noon, 
The mother-sheep hath worn a hollow bed — 
Ye, that now cool her fleece with dropless damp, *" 

Now pant and murmur with her feeding lamb : — 
("liase, chast- him, all ye Fays, and eltin (inoines ! 
With prickles sharper than his darts bemock 
His little (i()dsl)i|), making him perforce 
Creep through a thorn-bush on yon hedgehog's back. 

This is my hour of trium]>h ! I can now 
Willi m\' own fancii-s pla\- the merr\' fool. 
And laugh aw.iy worsr folly, being free. 
Here will I .scat myself, beside this old. 
Hollow, and weed\' oak, which ivy-twine *° 

Clothes as with ni-t-work : here will I couch mv limbs. 


Close by this river, in this silent shade, 

As safe and sacred from the step of man 

As an invisible world — unheard, unseen, 

And listening only to the pebbly brook 

That murmurs with a dead, yet tinkling sound ; 

Or to the bees, that in the neighbouring trunk 

Make honey-hoards. The breeze, that visits me. 

Was never Love's accomplice, never raised 

The tendril ringlets from the maiden's brow, ^^ 

And the blue, delicate veins above her cheek ; 

Ne'er played the wanton — never half disclosed 

The maiden's snowy bosom, scattering thence 

Eye-poisons for some love-distempered youth. 

Who ne'er henceforth may see an aspen-grove 

Shiver in sunshine, but his feeble heart 

Shall flow away like a dissolving thing. 

Sweet breeze ! thou only, if I guess aright, 
Liftest the feathers of the robin's breast, 
That swells its little breast, so full of song, '^" 

Singing above me, on the mountain-ash. 
And thou too, desert Stream ! no pool of thine. 
Though clear as lake in latest summer-eve, 
Did e'er reflect the stately virgin's robe. 
The face, the form divine, the downcast look 
Contemplative ! Behold ! her open palm 
Presses her cheek and brow ! her elbow rests 
On the bare branch of half-uprooted tree, 
That leans towards its mirror ! Who erewhile 
Had from her countenance turned, or looked by 

stealth, so 

(For Fear is true Love's cruel nurse,) he now 
With steadfast gaze and unoffending eye, 
Worships the watery idol, dreaming hopes 
Delicious to the soul, but fleeting, vain, 
E'en as that phantom-world on which he gazed. 
But not unheeded gazed : for see, ah ! see, 
The sportive tyrant with her left hand plucks 
The heads of tall flowers, that behind her grow, 
Lychnis, and willow-herb, and fox-glove bells ; 
And suddenly, as one that toys with time, 



Scatters tliein on the j)()ol ' Tlicn all the charm 

Is broken — all that i)hantom-\vorld so fair 

Vanishas, and a thousand circlets spread, 

And each mis-shaj)e the other. Stay awhile, 

Poor youth, who scarcely dar'st lift up thine eyes ! 

The stream will soon renew its smoothness, soon 

The visions will return I And lo ! he stays : 

And soon the fragments dim of lovely forms 

Come trembling back, unite, and now once more 

The j)ool becomes a mirror ; and behold *°° 

Each wildflower on the marge inverted there. 

And there the half-uiMOoted tree — but where, 

O where the N'irgin's snowy arm, that leaned 

On its bare branch ? He turns, and she is gone ! 

Homeward she steals through many a woodland maze 

Which he shall seek in vain. Ill-fated youth I 

(io, day by day, and waste thy manly i)rime 

In mad Love-yearning by the vacant brook, 

Till sickly thoughts bewitch thine eyes, and thou 

Hehold'st lier shadow still abiding there, 

The Naiad of the Mirror ! 


Not to thee, 

wild and desert Stream ! belongs this tale : 
Gloomy and dark art thou — the crowded hrs 
Spire from th\' shores, and stretch across thy bed, 
Making thee tloleful as a ca\'ern-well : 
Save when the shy king-tishers l^uild their nest 
On thy steep banks, no loves hast thou, wild stream ! 

This be ni\- chosen haunt — emancipate 
From Passion's dreams, a freeman, and alone, 

1 rise and trace its devious course. O lead, '"" 
Lead me to deeper shades and lonelier glooms. 
Lo ! stealing through the canopy of tirs 
How fair the sunshine spots that mossy rock, 
Isle of the ri\"er, wliose disparted waves 
Dart off asunder witli an angry sound, 
How soon to re-unite ! And see ! they meet, 
Each in the other lost and found : and see 
Placeless, as spirits, one soft water-sun 


Throbbing within them, Heart at once and Eye I 

With its soft neighbourhood of fihny clouds, ^^° 

The stains and shadings of forgotten tears, 

Dimness o'erswum with lustre ! Such the hour 

Of deep enjoyment, following love's brief feuds ; 

And hark, the noise of a near waterfall ! 

I pass forth into light — I find myself 

Beneath a weeping birch (most beautiful 

Of forest-trees, the Lady of the woods,) 

Hard by the brink of a tall weedy rock 

That overbrows the cataract. How bursts 

The landscape on my sight ! Two crescent hills '^° 

Fold in behind each other, and so make 

A circular vale, and land-locked, as might seem, 

With brook and bridge, and grey stone cottages. 

Half hid by rocks and fruit-trees. At my feet 

The whortle-berries are bedewed with spray, 

Dashed upwards by the furious waterfall. 

How solemnly the pendent ivy-mass 

Swings in its winnow ! All the air is calm. 

The smoke from cottage-chimneys, tinged with light, 

Rises in columns : from this house alone, ^^° 

Close by the waterfall, the column slants, 

And feels its ceaseless breeze. But what is this ? 

That cottage, with its slanting chimney-smoke, 

And close beside its porch a sleeping child, 

His dear head pillowed on a sleeping dog — 

One arm between its fore legs, and the hand 

Holds loosely its small handful of wild-flowers, 

Unfilletted, and of unequal lengths : — 

A curious picture, with a master's haste 

Sketched on a strip of pinky-silver skin, ^^^ 

Peeled from the birchen bark ! Divinest maid ! 

Yon bark her canvas, and those purple berries 

Her pencil ! See, the juice is scarcely dried 

On the fine skin ! She has been newly here ; 

And lo ! yon patch of heath has been her couch — 

The pressure still remains ! O blessed couch ! 

For this mayst thou flower early, and the Sun, 

Slanting at eve, rest bright, and linger long 

Upon thy purple bells ! O Isabel ! 



Daughter of genius I stateliest ol our inaicLs ! 

More beautiful than whom Alcicus wooed, 

The Lesbian woman of immortal song ! 

O child of genius ! stately, beautiful, 

And full of love to all, save only me. 

And not ungentle e'en to me I >Iy heart, 

Why beats it thus ? Through yonder coppice-wood 

Needs must the pathway turn, that leads straightway 

On to her father's house. She is alone ! 

The night draws on — such ways are hard to hit — 

And fit it is I should restore this sketch. 

Dropped unawares no doubt. Why should I yearn 

To keep the relique ? 'twill but idly feed 

The pa.ssion that consumes me. Let me haste, — 

The picture in my hand which she has left ! 

She cannot blame me that I followed her — 

And I may be her guide the long wood through. 




AX oDi': TO 'rm: i<.\l\ 





Tur: RAIN Mn;iir detain 


1 KNOW it is tlaik ; anil though I have lain, 

.Awake, as I guess, an hour or twain, 

1 lia\e not once ojH'ned the lids of my eyes, 

Hut I lie in the dark, as a blind man lies. 

O Rain ! that 1 lie listening to. 

You're but a iloleful sound at best : 


I owe you little thanks, 'tis true, 

For breaking thus my needful rest ! 

Yet if, as soon as it is light, 

O Rain ! you will but take your flight, 1" 

I'll neither rail, nor malice keep, 

Though sick and sore for want of sleep. 

But only now, for this one day, 

Do go, dear Rain ! do go away ! 


O Rain ! with your dull two-fold sound. 
The clash hard by, and the murmur all round ! 
You know, if you know aught, that we, 
Both night and day, but ill agree : 
For days and months, and almost years, 
Have limped on through this vale of tears, ^^ 

Since body of mine, and rainy weather. 
Have lived on easy terms together. 
Yet if, as soon as it is light, 
O Rain ! \^ou will but take your flight. 
Though you should come again to-morrow, 
And bring with you both pain and sorrow ; 
Though stomach should sicken and knees should 

swell — 
I'll nothing speak of you but well. 
But only now for this one day. 
Do go, dear Rain ! do go away ! ^^ 


Dear Rain ! I ne'er refused to say 
You're a good creature in your way ; 
Nay, I could write a book myself, 
Would fit a parson's lower shelf. 
Showing how very good you are. — 
What then ? sometimes it must be fair ! 
And if sometimes, why not to-day ? 
Do go. dear Rain ! do go away ! 



Dear Rain ! it I've been cold and shy, 
Take no offence ! I'll tell 30U why. 
A dear old friend e'en now is here, 
And with him came my sister dear ; 
After long absence now first met, 
Long months by pain and grief beset — 
We three dear friends ! in truth, we groan 
Impatiently — to be alone. 
We three, you mark ! and not one more ! 
The strong wish makes my spirit sore. 
We have so much to talk about, 
So many sad things to let out ; 
So many tears in our eye-corners. 
Sitting like little Jacky Horners — 
In short, as soon as it is day, 
Do go, dear Rain ! do go away. 


And this I'll swear to you, dear Rain ! 
Whenever you shall come again, 
Be you as dull as e'er you could, 
(And by the bye 'tis understood. 
You're not so pleasant as you're good). 
Yet, knowing well \c)ur worth and place, 
I'll welcome you with cheerful face : 
And though you stayed a week or more, 
Were ten times duller than before ; 
Yet with kind heart, and right good will, 
I'll sit and listen to you still ; 
Nor should you go away, dear Rain ! 
Uninvited to remain. 
Hut only now, for this one day, 
Do go, dear Rain ! do go away. 






Besides the Rivers, Arve and Arveiron, which have their 
sources in the foot of Mont Blanc, live conspicuous torrents 
rush down its sides ; and within a few paces of the Glaciers, the 
Gentiana Major grows in immense numbers, with its " flowers 
of loveliest blue." 

Hast thou a charm to stay the Morning-Star 

In his steep course ? So long he seems to pause 

On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc ! 

The Arve and Arveiron at thy base 

Rave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful Form ! 

Risest from forth thy silent Sea of Pines, 

How silently ! Around thee and above 

Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, 

An ebon mass : methinks thou piercest it. 

As with a wedge ! But when I look again, i° 

It is thine own calm home, thy chrystal shrine. 

Thy habitation from eternity ! 

dread and silent Mount ! I gazed upon thee, 
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense. 

Didst vanish from my thought : entranced in prayer 

1 worshipped the Invisible alone. 

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melodj^ 
So sweet, we know not we are listening to it. 
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my Thought, 
Yea, with my Life and Life's own secret Joy : ^° 

Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused, 
Into the mighty Vision passing — there. 
As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven ! 

Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise 
Thou owest ! not alone these swelling tears, 
Mute thanks and secret ecstasy ! Awake, 
Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my Heart, awake ! 
Green Vales and icy Cliffs, all join my Hymn. , , 

Thou first and chief, sole Sovereign of the Vale ! 
O struggling with the Darkness all the night, ^*^ 

And visited all night by troops of stars, 

335 / 



Or when they chnib the sky or when they sink : 
Conij^anion of the Morning-Star at Dawn, 
Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the Dawn 
Co-herald : wake, O wake, and utter praise ! 
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in Earth ? 
Who filled thy countenance with rosy light ? 
Who made thee Parent of perpetual streams ? 

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! 
Who called you forth from night and utter death. 
From dark and icy caverns called you forth, 
Down those i)recipitous, black, jagged Rocks, 
For ever shattered and the same for ever ? 
Who gave you your invulnerable life. 
Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy. 
Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ? 
And who commanded (and the silence came,) 
Here let the Billows stiffen, and have Rest ? 

Ye Ice-falls ! ye that from the Mountain's brow 
Adown enormous Ravines slope amain — 
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty Voice, 
And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge ! 
Motionless Torrents ! silent Cataracts ! 
Who made you glorious as the Gates of Heaven 
Beneath the keen full Moon ? Who bade the Sun 
Clothe you witii Rainbows ? Who, with living 

Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet ? — 
Ciod ! Icf tlif Torrents, like a Shout of Nations, 
AnswiT ! and let the Ice-plains echo, (^lod ! 
(iod ! sing >e meadow-streams with gladsome voice ! 
Ye Pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds ! 
Ami they too have a voice, yon piles of Snow, 
And in their pnilous fall shall tlumdci". Cod ! 

Ye living flowers that skirt tlie eternal h'rost ! 
Ye wild goats sporting round the ICagle's nest ! 
Ye Eagles, playmates of thr Mountain Storm ! 
Ye Lightnings, the dread arrows of the Clouds ! 
Yr signs and wonders of the element I 
Utter forth Cod, and till the Hills with Praise I 





Thou too, hoar Mount ! with thy sky-pointing Peaks, 
Oft from whose feet the Avalanche, unheard, 'i 

Shoots downward, gUttering through the pure Serene 
Into the depth of Clouds, that veil thy breast — 
Thou too again, stupendous Mountain ! thou 
That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low 
In adoration, upward from thy Base 
Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears, 
Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud, 
To rise before me — Rise, O ever rise, 
Rise like a cloud of Incense, from the Earth ! 8° 

Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills. 
Thou dread Ambassador from Earth to Heaven, 
Great Hierarch ! tell thou the silent Sky, 
And tell the Stars, and tell yon rising Sun, 
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. 



[" One of our most celebrated poets, who had, I was told, 
picked out and praised the little piece ' On a Cloud ' another 
had quoted, (saying it would have been faultless if I had not 
used the word Phoebus in it, which he thought inadmissible in 
modern poetry), sent me some verses inscribed ' To Matilda 
Betham, from a Stranger ' ; and dated ' Keswick, September 9, 
1802, S. T. C I should have guessed whence they came, but 
dared not flatter myself so highly as satisfactorily to believe it, 
before T obtained tlie avowal of the lady who had transmitted 

Matilda ! I have heard a sweet tune played 

On a sweet instrument — thy Poesie — 

Sent to my soul by Boughton's pleading voice, 

Where Friendship's zealous wish inspirited. 

Deepened and filled the subtle tones of taste : 

(So have I heard a Nightingale's fine notes 

Blend with the murmurs of a hidden stream !) 

And now thepair, wild offspring of thy genius, 

Those wanderers whom thy fancy had sent forth 

To seek their fortune in this motley world, ^^ 




Have found a little home within my heart. 
And brouf^ht me. as the (juit-rent of their lodging, 
R()se-l)U(U, and fruit-blossoms, aiul j)retty weeds, 
And timorous laurel leaflets half-disclosed, 
Engarlanded with gadding woodbine tendrils ! 
A coronal, which, with undoubting hand, 
I twine around the brows of patriot Hope ! 

The Almighty, having first composed a Man, 

Set him to music, framing Woman for him. 

And fitted each to each, and made them one ! -" 

And 'tis my faith, that there's a natural bond 

Between the female mind and measured sounds, 

Nor do I know a sweeter Hope than this, 

Tlian this sweet Hope, by judgment unreprovcd, 

That our own Britain, our dear Mother Isle, 

May boast one Maid, a poetess indeed, 

Great as th' impassioned Lesbian, in sweet song. 

And O ! of holier mind, and happier fate. 

Matilda ! I dare twine thy vernal wreath 
Around the brows of jiatriot Hope ! But thou '" 

Be wise ! be bold ! fulhl my auspices ! 
Tho' sweet thy measures, stern must be thy thought. 
Patient th\' studv, watchful thy mild eye ! 
Poetic feelings, like the stretching boughs 
Of mighty oaks, pay homage to the gales, 
Toss in the strong winds, drive before the gust, 
Themsel\-es one gidtly storm of fluttering leaves ; 
Yet. all the while self-limited, remain, 
L^qually near the fixed and solid trunk 
Of Truth and Nature, in the howling storm, 
As in the calm that stills the iispen grove. 
Be bold, meek Woman ! but be wisely bold ! 
Fly, ostrich-like, tirm land beneath thy feet, 
Yet hurried onward b\- th\' wings of fancv 
Swift as the wliiilwiiul. singing in their (luills. 
Look round thee ! look within thee ! think and feel ! 
What nol)ler nu-ed, Matilda ! canst thou win. |j 

Than tears of ghulness in a Boughton's eyes. ^| 

And exultation even in strangers' hearts ? '| 




This Sycamore, oft musical with Bees, — 

Such Tents the Patriarchs loved ! O long unharmed 

May all its aged Boughs o'er-canopy 

The small round Basin, which this jutting stone 

Keeps pure from falling leaves ! Long may the Spring, 

Quietly as a sleeping Infant's breath, 

Send up cold waters to the Traveller 

With soft and even Pulse ! Nor ever cease 

Yon tiny Cone of Sand its soundless Dance, 

Which at the bottom, like a Fairy's Page, 

As merry and no taller, dances still, 

Nor wrinkles the smooth Surface of the Fount. 

Here twilight is and coolness : here is moss, 

A soft seat, and a deep and ample shade. 

Thou may'st toil far and find no second tree. 

Drink, Pilgrim, here ! Here rest ! and if thy Heart 

Be innocent, here too shalt thou refresh 

Thy Spirit, listening to some gentle Sound, 

Or passing gale, or hum of murmuring Bees ! 




" How seldom. Friend ! a good great Man inherits 
Honour or wealth with all his worth and pains ! 
It sounds like stories from the land of spirits 
If any man obtain that which he merits, 
Or any merit that which he obtains." 




For shame, dear Friend, renounce this canting strain ! 

What would'st tliou have a good great man obtain ? 

Phice ? Titles ? Salary ? a gilded Chain ? 

Or Throne of corses which his sword had slain ? 

Greatness and goodness are not means, but oids / 

Hatii he not always treasures, always friends, 

The good great Man ? three treasures, Love, and Light, 

And Calm Thoughts, regular as infant's breath ; — 
And three hrm friends, more sure than day and night, 

Himself, his Maker, and the Angel Death ! 



Do you ask what the birds say ? The Sparrow, the 

The Linnet and Tluush say, " I love and I love ! " 
In the winter they're silent — the wind is so strong ; 
What it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud song. 
But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm 

And singing, and loving — all come back together. 
" I love, and I love," almost all the birds say 
From sunrise to star-rise, so gladsome are they ! 
But the Lark is so brimful of gladness and love, 
The green fields below him, the blue sky above, 
That he sings, and he sings ; and for ever sings he — 
" I love niv Lovi', and mv Love loves me ! " 
'Tis no wonder that he's full of joy to the brim. 
When he loves his Lovi-, and his Love loves him ' 




Oft, oft methinks, the while with thee, 
I breathe, as from the heart, thy dear 
And dedicated name, I hear 

A promise and a mystery, 

A pledge of more than passing life. 
Yea, in that very name of Wife ! 

A pulse of love, that ne'er can sleep ! 

A feeling that upbraids the heart 

With happiness beyond desert, 
That gladness half requests to weep ! 

Nor bless I not the keener sense 

And unalarming turbulence 

Of transient joys, that ask no sting 
From jealous fears, or coy denying ; 
But born beneath Love's brooding wing, 

And into tenderness soon dying. 
Wheel out their giddy moment, then 
Resign the soul to love again. 

A more precipitated vein 

Of notes, that eddy in the flow 

Of smoothest song, they come, they go. 

And leave their sweeter understrain 
Its own sweet self — a love of Thee 
That seems, yet cannot greater be ! 



My eyes make pictures, when they are shut 
I see a fountain, large and fair, 

A willow and a ruined hut. 

And thee, and me and Mary there. 



O Mary ! make thy gentle lap our pillow ! 

Bend o'er us, like a bower, my beautiful green willow ! 

A wild-rose roofs the ruined shed, 

And that and summer well agree : 
And lo ! where Mary leans her head, 
Two dear names carved upon the tree ! 
And Mary's tears, they are not tears of sorrow : 
Our sister and our friend will both be here to-morrow. 

'Twas day ! but now, few, large and bright, 

The stars are round the crescent moon I 
And now it is a dark warm night. 
The balmiest of the month ol June ! 
A glow-worm fallen, and on the marge remounting 
Shines, and its shadow shines. Jit stars for our sweet 

O ever — ever be thou blest ! 

For dearly, Asra ! love I thee ! 
This brooding warmtli across my breast. 
This depth of tranquil bliss — ah, me ! 
Fount, tree and shed are gone. I know not whither, 
I^ut in one quiet room we three are still together. 

The shadows dance upon the wall. 

By the still dancing fire-flames made ; 
And now they slumber moveless all ! 
And now they melt to one deep shade ! 
But not from me shall this mild darkness steal thee : 
I dream thee witli mine eves, and at mv heart I feel 
thee ! 

Tliine eyelash on my cheek doth play — 

'Tis Mary's hand upon my brow ! 
l-Jut let mc check this tender lay 

Whicli none may hear but she and thou ! 
Like tlie still hive at quiet midnight humming. 
Murnnir it to \"»>urselvcs, ye two belovrd women I 

I Su2. 

Ere on my bed my limbs I lay, 

It hath not been my use to pray 

With moving lips or bended knees ; 

But silently, by slow degrees, 

My spirit I to Love compose, 

In humble trust mine eye-lids close. 

With reverential resignation, 

No wish conceived, no thought expressed 

QnTy a sense of supplication, — 

A sense o'er all my soul impressed 

X^Sit I am weak, yet not unblest. 

Since in me, round me, every where 

Eternal Strength and Wisdom are. 


But yester-night I prayed aloud 
In anguish and in agony, 
Up-starting from the fiendish crowd 
Of shapes and thoughts that tortured me 
A lurid light, a trampling throng, 
Sense of intolerable wrong. 
And whom I scorned, those only strong ! 
Thirst of revenge, the powerless will 
Still baffled, and yet burning still ! 





Desire with loathing strangely mixed 

On wild or hateful objects fixed. 

Fantastic passions ! maddening brawl ! 

And shame and terror over all ! 

Deeds to be hid which were not hid, 

Which all confused I could not know, 

Whether I suffered, or I did : 

For all seemed guilt, remorse or woe, ^" 

My own or others' still the same — 

Life-stithng fear, soul-stifling shame. 

So two nights passed : the night's dismay 

Saddened and stunned the coming day. 

Sleep, the wide blessing, seemed to me 

Distemper's worst calamity. 

The third night, when my own loud scream 

Had waked me from the fiendish dream, 

O'ercome with sufferings strange and wild, 

I wept as I had been a child ; *" 

And having thus l)y tears subdued 

My anguish to a milder mood. 

Such ]>unisliments, I said, were due 

To n a t u r c;s c 1 ee pliest s tamed' wj th s in, — 

For aye'eritempesting anew 

The unfathomable hell within, 

The horror of their deeds to view. 

T o kno w and loathe,_yjj:L-m>h antl do ! 

Such gn'efs with such men well agree. 

Hut wherefore, wherefore fall on me ? '" 

To be l)eloved is ail I need. 

And whom I love, I love-fndeetl. 


.\x .\xgi:l \ isiTAxr 


Within these circling hollies woodbine-clad — 

HtMieath this small lihie roof of vernal sky — 

How warm, how still I Tho' tears should dim mine eye, 

Yet will my heart for days continue glad, 

For here, my love, thou art. and here am I ! 


Since all, that beat about in Nature's range, 
Or veer or vanish ; why should' st thou remain 
The only constant in a world of change, 

yearning thought, that liv'st but in the brain ? 
Call to the hours, that in the distance play. 

The faery people of the future day — 

Fond thought ! not one of all that shining swarm 

Will breathe on thee with life-enkindling breath, 

Till when, like strangers shelt'ring from a storm, 

Hope and Despair meet in the porch of Death ! 

Yet still thou haunt' st me : and though well I sec, 

She is not thou, and only thou art she. 

Still, still as though some dear embodied Good, 

Some living Love before my eyes there stood 

With answering look a ready ear to lend, 

1 mourn to thee and say — " Ah ! loveliest Friend ! 
That this the meed of all my toils might be. 

To have a home, an English home, and thee ! " 
Vain repetition ! Home and Thou are one. 
The peacefull'st cot, the Moon shall shine upon, 
Lulled by the thrush and wakened by the lark 
Without thee were but a becalmed bark. 
Whose Helmsman on an Ocean waste and wide 
Sits mute and pale his mouldering helm beside. 
And art thou nothing ? Such thou art, as when 
The woodman winding westward up the glen 
At wintry dawn, where o'er the sheep-track's maze 
The viewless snow-mist weaves a glist'ning haze, 

* Sees full before him, gliding without tread, 

* This phenomenon which the author has himself experienced, 
and of which the reader may find a description in one of the 
earher vohimes of the Manchester Philosophical Transactions 
is apphed figuratively in the following passage in the Aids to 
Reflection : " Pindar's fine remark respecting the different 
effects of music on different characters, holds equally true of 
Genius ; as many as are not delighted by it are disturbed, 
perplexed, irritated. The beholder either recognises it as a 
projected form of his own being, that moves before him with a 
glory round its head, or recoils from it as a spectre." Aids to 
Reflection, 1825, p. 220. 



An image with a glory round its head : 
The enamoured rustic worships its fair hues, 
Nor knows he makes the shadow he pursues ! 



All look and hkeness caught from Earth, 

All accident of kin and birth, 

Had passed away. There was no trace 

Of auglit on that illumined face, 

Upraised beneath the rifted stone 

But of one spirit all her own ; — 

Slu', she herself, and only she. 

Shone through her body visibly. 



Resembles Life what once was deemed of Light, 
Too ample in itself for human sight ? 
An absolute self — an element ungrounded — 
All that we see, all colours of all shade 
Bv encroach of darkness maile ? — 
Is Very Life bv Conscicnisness unbounded ? 
And ail the thoughts, pains, joys of mortal breath, 
A war-embrace of wrestling Life and Death ? 






I seem to have an indistinct recollection of having read either 
in one of the ponderous tomes of George of Venice, or in some 
other compilation from the uninspired Hebrew Writers, an 
Apologue or Rabbinical Tradition to the following purpose : 

While our first parents stood before their offended Maker, 
and tlie last words of the sentence were yet sounding in Adam's 
ear, the guileful false serpent, a counterfeit and a usurper from the 
beginning, presumptuously took on himself the character of 
advocate or mediator, and pretending to intercede for Adam, 
exclaimed : " Nay, Lord, in thy justice, not so ! for the Man was 
the least in fault. Rather let the Woman return at once to the 
dust, and let Adam remain in this thy Paradise." And the word 
of the Most High answered Satan : " The tender mercies of the 
wicked are cruel. Treacherous Fiend ! if with guilt like thine, 
it had been possible for thee to have the heart of a Man, and to 
feel the yearning of a human soul for its counterpart, the .sen- 
tence, which thou now counsellest should have been inflicted 
on thyself." 

The title of the following poem was suggested by a fact men- 
tioned by Linnaeus, of a Date-tree in a nobleman's garden which 
year after year had put forth a full show of blossoms, but never 
produced fruit, till a branch from another Date-tree had been 
conveyed from a distance of some hundred leagues. The first 
leaf of the MS. from which the poem has been transcribed, and 
which contained the two or three introductory stanzas, is want- 
ing : and the author has in vain taxed his memory to repair the 
loss. But a rude draught of the poem contains the substance of 
the stanzas, and the reader is requested to receive it as the sub- 
stitute. It is not impossible, that some congenial spirit, whose 
years do not exceed those of the author, at the time the poem was 
written, may find a pleasure in restoring the Lament to its 
original integrity by a reduction of the thoughts to the requisite 

S. T. C. 

Beneath the blaze of a tropical sun the mountain 
peaks are the Thrones of Frost, through the absence of 
objects to reflect the rays. " What no one with us 
shares, seems scarce our own." The presence of a 


The best belov'd, who loveth me the best, 


is for the heart, what the supporting air from within is 
for tlie hollow globe with its suspended car. Deprive it 
of this, and all without, that would have buoyed it aloft 
even to the seat of the gods, becomes a burthen and 
crushes it into flatness. 


The finer the sense for the beautiful and the lovely, 
and the fairer and lovelier the object presented to the 
sense ; the more exquisite the individual's capacity of 
joy, and the more ample his means and opportunities of 
enjoyment, the more heavily will he feel the ache of 
solitariness, the more unsubstantial liccomes the feast 
spread around him. What matters it, whether in fact 
the viands and the ministering graces are shadowy or 
real, to him who has not hand to grasp nor arms to 
embrace them ? 


Imagination ; honourable aims ; 

Free commune with the Choir that cannot die ; 

Science and Song ; delight in little things, 

The buoyant child surviving in the man ; 

Fields, forests, ancient mountains, ocean, sky,^ 

With all their voices — O dare I accuse 

My earthly lot as guilty of my spleen. 

Or call my ilestiny niggard ! O no ! no ! 

It is her largeness, and her overflow, 

Which being incomplete, disquieteth me so ! 


For never touch of gladness stirs my heart, 

Hut tim'rously begiiuiing to rejoice 

Like a blind .Aral), that from sleep doth start 

In lonesome tent, I listi-n for thy voice. 

Helovc^d ! 'tis not thine ; thou art not there ' 

TIuMi melts the bubt)le into idle air. 

And wishing without hope I restlessly despair. 


The mother with anticipated glee 

Smiles o'er the child, that standing by her chair 

And flatt'nmg its round cheek upon her knee, 

Looks up, and doth its rosy lips prepare 

To mock the coming sounds. At that sweet sight 

She hears her own voice with a new delight ; 

And if the babe perchance should lisp the notes aright, 


Then is she tenfold gladder than before ! 

But should disease or chance the darling take, 

^Vhat then avail those songs, which sweet of yore 

Were only sweet for their sweet echo's sake ? 

Dear maid ! no prattler at a mother's knee 

Was e'er so dearly prized as I prize thee : 

Why was I made for Love and Love denied to me ? 




Farewell, sweet Love ! yet blame you not my truth ; 

More fondly ne'er did mother eye her child 
Than I your form : yours were my hopes of youth, 

And as you shaped my thoughts I sighed or smiled. 

While most were wooing wealth, or gaily swerving 
To Pleasure's secret haunts, and some apart 

Stood strong in pride, self-conscious of deserving. 
To you I gave my whole weak wishing heart. 

And when I met the Maid that realised 

Your fair creations, and had won her kindness. 


Say, l)ut for her if aught on earth I prized ! 

Your dreams alone I dreamt, and caught your blind- 

() grief !— but farewell, Love ! I will go play me 
With thoughts that please me less, and less betray me. 




Trochee trijis from long to short ; 

From long to long in solemn sort 

Slow Spondee stalks ; strong foot I yet ill able 

Ever to come up with Dactyl trisyllable. 

Iambics march from short to long ; — 

With a leap and a bovmd the swift Anapaests throng ; 

One syllable long, with one short at each side, 

Anijihibrachys hastes with a stately stride ; — 

h'lrst and last being long, middle sliort, Amphimacer 

Strikes his thundering hoofs like a jiroud high-bred 

If Dorwcnt ho innocent, steady, and wi-^c. 
And delight in the things of earth, water, and skies ; 
Tender warmth at his heart, with these metres to show it, 
With sound sense in his brains, may make Derwcnt a 

poet, — 
May crown him with fame, and must win him the love 
Of his father on earth and his Father above. 

My dear, dear child ! 
CouKl you stanil upon Skiiklaw, you would not from ils 

whole ridge 
See a man who so loves you as your fond S. T. Coleridge. 

I ScO. 




Friend of the Wise ! and Teacher of the Good ! 

Into my heart I have received that Lay 

More than historic, that prophetic Lay 

Wherein (high theme by thee first sung aright) 

Of the foundations and the building up 

Of the Human Spirit, thou hast dared to tell 

What may be told, to the understanding mind 

Revealabie ; and what within the mind 

By vital Breathings, secret as the soul 

Of vernal growth, oft quickens in the Heart ^" 

Thoug hts all too deep for words ! — 

Theme hard as high ! 
Of smiles spontaneous, and mysterious fears, 
(The first-born they of Reason and twin-birth) 
Of tides obedient to external force. 
And currents self-determined, as might seem, 
Or bv some inner Power ; of moments awful, 
Now in thy inner life, and now abroad. 
When power streamed from thee, and thy soul received 
The light reflected, as a light bestowed — 
Of fancies fair, and milder hours of youth, 2" 

Hyblean murmurs of poetic thought 
Industrious in its joy, in vales and glens. 
Native or outland, lakes and famous hills ! 
Or on the lonely high-road, when the Stars 
Were rising ; or by secret mountain-streams, 
The Guides and the Companions of thy way ! 

Of more than Fancy, of the Social Sense 
Distending wide, and Man beloved as Man, 
Where France in all her towns lay vibrating 
Like some becalmed bark beneath the burst ^^ 

Of Heaven's immediate Thunder, when no cloud 
Is visible, or shadow on the Main. 
For thou wert there, thine own brows garlanded, 



Amid I he tremor of a Realm aglow, 
Amid a mighty Nation jubilant. 
When from the general heart of Human kind 
Hcpe sprang forth like a full-l)orn Deity ! 

Of that dear Hope afflicted and struck down, 

So summoned homeward, thenceforth calm and sure, 

From the dread Watch-Tower of man's absolute Self. '° 

With light unwaning on her eyes, to look 

Far on — herself a glory to behold. 

The Angel of the vision ! Then (last strain) 

Of Duty, chosen Laws controlling choice. 

Action and Joy I — An Orphic song indeed, 

A song divine of high and passionate thoughts 

To their own music chaunted ! 

O great Bard ! 
Ere yet that last strain dying awed the air. 
With steadfast eye I viewed thee in the choir 
Of ever-enduring men. The truly Great — >v ^^ 

Have all one age, and from one visible space^ 
Shed influence ! They, both in power and act. 
Are jiermanent. and Time is not with ///<';;;. 
Save as it worketh for tlieni. they in it. 
Nor less a sacred Roll than those of old. 
And to be jilaced. as thev, with gradual fame 
Among the Archives of Mankind, thy work 
Makes audible a linked lay of Truth, 
Of Truth profound a .sweet continuous lay. 
Not learnt, but native, her own natural notes ! "" 

Ah ! as I listened with a heart forlorn, 
The pulses of my Being b£at_ ane\v : 
And even as Life returns upon the drowned. 
Life's joy rekindling roused a throng of Pains — 
Kei'u pangs of Lo\e, awakening as a babe 
Turlnilent. with an outcry in the heart ; 
And Fears self-willed, that shunned the eve of Hope ; 
And Hope that scarce would know itself from Fear ; 
Sense of ]iast Youth, and Manliood come in vain. 
And (lenius given, and Knowledge won in vain ; '" 

And all which I had i ulK'd in W(K)d-walks wild, 
And all which patient toil had reared, and lUl, 



Commune with thee had opened out — but flowers 
Strewed on my corse, and borne upon my bier, 
In the same coffin, for the self-same grave ! 

That way no more ! and ill beseems it me, 
Who came a welcomer in Herald's guise, 
Singing of Glory, and Futurity, 
To wander back on such unhealthful road. 
Plucking the poisons of self-harm ! And ill so 

Such intertwine beseems triumphal wreaths 
Strewed before thy advancing ! 

Nor do thou, 
Sage Bard ! impair the memory of that hour 
Of thy communion with my nobler mind 
By Pity or Grief, already felt too long ! 
Nor let my words import more blame than needs. 
The tumult rose and ceased : for Peace is nigh 
Where Wisdom's voice has found a listening heart. 
Amid the howl of more than wintry storms, 
The Halcyon hears the voice of vernal hours ^^ 

Already on the wing. 

Eve following eve, 
Dear tranquil time, when the sweet sense of Home 
Is sweetest ! moments for their own sake hailed 
And more desired, more precious for thy song, — 
In silence listening, like a devout child. 
My soul lay passive, by thy various strain 
Driven as in surges, now beneath the stars. 
With momentary stars of my own birth,* 
Fair constellated foam, still darting off 
Into the darkness ; now a tranquil sea, lo" 

Outspread and bright, yet swelling to the Moon. 

And when — O Friend ! my comforter and guide ! 
Strong in thyself, and powerful to give strength ! — 

* " A beautiful white cloud of foam at momentary intervals 
coursed by the side of the vessel with a roar, and little stars of 
flame danced and sparkled and went out in it ; and every now 
and then light detachments of this white cloud-like foam darted 
off from the vessel's side, each with its own small constellation, 
over the sea, and scoured out of sight like a Tartar troup over a 
wilderness." S. T. C. 1798. Note in Sihyl'.ine Leaves. 



Thy long-sustained Song finally closed, 

And thy deep voice had ceased — yet thou thyself, 

Wert still before my eyes, and round us both 

That happv vision of beloved Faces — 

Scarce conscious, and yet conscious of its close 

I sate, my being blended in one thought 

(Thought was it ? or aspiration ? or resolve ?) 

Absorbed, yet hanging still upon the sound — 

And when I rose, I found myself in prayer. 


1 807. 



He too has flitted from his secret nest, 
Hope's last and dearest child without a name ! — 
Has Hilled from me, like the warmthless flame. 
That makes false promise of a place of rest 
To the tired Pilgrim's still believing mind ; — 
Or like some P^Uin Knight in kingly court. 
Who having won all guerdons in his sport, 
Ghdes out of view, and whither none can find ! 


Yes ! lie hath flitted from me — with what aim. 
Or why, I know not ! 'Twas a home of bliss, ^^ 

And Pie was innocent, as the pretty shame 
Of babe, that tempts and shuns the menaced kiss. 
Prom its twy-clustered hiding jilace oi snow ! 
Pure as the babe, I ween, and all aglow 
As tiie dear hopes, that swell tlie motlier's breast — 
Her eyes tlown ga/.ing o'er her clasped charge ; — 
Yet gay as that twice hajipy father's kiss. 
That well might glance aside, yet never miss, 
Wheie the swei-t mark embossed so sweet a targe — 
I'wicc wret< Ik (1 lie who hath Iu>«mi <loul)l3' blest ! "-" 



Like a loose blossom on a gusty night 

He flitted from me — and has left behind 

(As if to them his faith he ne'er did plight) 

Of either sex and answerable mind 

Two playmates, twin-births of his foster-dame : — 

The one a steady lad (Esteem he hight), 

And Kindness is the gentler sister's name. 

Dim likeness now, though fair she be and good, 

Of that bright Boy who hath us all forsook ; — 

But in his full-eyed aspect when she stood, 3° 

And while her face reflected every look, 

And in reflection kindled — she became 

So like Him, that almost she seemed the same ! 


Ah ! He is gone, and yet will not depart ! — 

Is with me still, yet I from him exiled ! 

For still there lives within my secret heart 

The magic image of the magic Child, 

Which there He made up-grow by his strong art, 

As in that crystal orb — wise Merlin's feat, — 

The wondrous " World of Glass," wherein inisled '"^ 

All longed for things their beings did repeat ; — 

And there he left it, like a Sylph beguiled, 

To live and yearn and languish incomplete ! 

Can wit of man a heavier grief reveal ? 

Can sharper pang from hate or scorn arise ? — 

Yes ! one more sharp there is that deeper lies, 

Which fond Esteem but mocks when he would heal. 

Yet neither scorn nor hate did it devise. 

But sad compassion and atoning zeal ! 

One pang more blighting-keen than hope betrayed, ^^ 

And this it is my woeful hap to feel, 

When, at her Brother's hest, the twin-born Maid 


With face averted and unsteady eyes, 
Her truant playmate's faded robe puts on ; 
And inly shrinking from her own disguise 
Enacts the faery Boy that's lost and gone. 
O worse than all ! O pang all pangs above 
Is Kindness counterfeiting absent Love ! 





How warm this woodland wild Recess ! 
Love surely hath been breathing here : \ 
And this sweet bed of heath, my dear ! 

Swells up, then sinks with faint caress, 
As if to have you yet more near. 


Eight springs have flown, since last I lay 
On "sea-ward Quantock's " heathy hills, 
Where quiet sounds from hidden rills 

Float here and there, like things astray, 
And high o'er head the sky-lark shrills. 


No voice as yet had made the air 
Be music with your name ; yet why 
That asking look ? that yearning sigh ? 

That sense of promise every where ? 
Beloved ! flew your spirit by ? 


As when a mother doth explore 

The rose-mark on her long-lost child, 
I met, I loved you, maiden mild ! 

As whom I long had loved before — 
So deeply had I been beguiled. 

You stood before me like a thought,] 
A dream remembered in a dream. 
But when those meek eyes first did seem 

To tell me. Love within you wi'ought — 
O Greta, dear domestic stream ! 



Has not, since then, Love's prompture deep, 
Has not Love's whisper evermore 
Been ceaseless, as thy gentle roar ? 

Sole voice, when other voices sleep, 
Dear under-song in Clamour's hour. 




A wanderer's farewell 

To know, to esteem, to love, — and then to part — 
Makes \ip Life's tale to many a feeling heart ; 
Alas for some abiding-j)lace of Love, 
O'er wiiich my spirit, like the mother dove, 
Might brood with warming wings ! 

O lair ! U kind ! 
Sisters in blood, yet each with each intwined 
More close by sisterhood of heart and mind ! 
Me disinherited in form and face 
I^y nature, and mishap of outwarel grace ; 
Who, soul and body, through one guiltless fault 
Waste daily with tlic poison of sad thought. 
Me did you soothe, when solace hojicil I noue I 
And as on imt hawed ice the winter sun, 
Though stern the frost, though brief the genial day, 
You bless mv heart with manv a cheerful ray : 
For (iratitude suspi-nds the heart's despair, 
Reflecting bright though cold your image there. 
Nay more ! its nursic by some sweeter strain 
Makes us live o'er our hapi)iest hours again, 




Hope i"c-appearing dim in Memory's guise — 
Even thus did you call up before mine eyes , 
Two dear, dear Sisters, prized all price above. 
Sisters, like you, with more than sisters' love : 
So like you they, and so in you were seen 
Their relative statures, tempers, looks, and mien, 
That oft, dear ladies ! you have been to me 
At once a vision and reality. 

Sight seemed a sort of memory, and Amaze 
Mingled a trouble with Affection's gaze. 

Oft to my eager soul I whisper blame, 

A Stranger bid it feel the Stranger's shame — 

My eager soul, impatient of the name. 

No strangeness owns, no Stranger's form descries : 

The chidden heart spreads trembling on the eyes. 

First-seen I gazed, as I would look you thro' ! 

My best-beloved regained their youth in you, — 

And still I ask, though now familiar grown, 

Are you for their sakes dear, or for your own ? 

O doubly dear ! may Quiet with you dwell ! 
In Grief I love you, yet I love you well ! 
Hope long is dead to me ! an orphan's tear 
Love wept despairing o'er his nurse's bier. 
Yet still she flutters o'er her grave's green slope : 
For Love's despair is but the ghost of Hope ! 

Sweet Sisters ! were you placed around one hearth 

With those, your other selves in shape and worth. 

Far rather would I sit in solitude, 

Fond recollections all my fond heart's food. 

And dream of you, sweet Sisters ! (ah ! not mine !) 

And only dream of you (ah ! dream and pine !) ^^ 

Than boast the presence and partake the pride, 

And shine in the eye, of all the world beside. 




Ere on my bed my limbs I lay, 
(iod grant me grace my prayers to say : 
() (iod ! preserve mv mother dear 
In strength ami health for many a Near ; 
And, O ! preserve my father too, 
And may I pay him reverence ilne ; 
Anil may I my best thoughts em])loy 
To be my parents' hojie and joy ; 
And O ! preserve my brothers both 
From evil doings ami from sloth. 
And may we always love each other, 
Our friends, our father, and our mother : 
And still. () Lord, to me impart 
An innocent and grateful heart, 
That after my last sleep I may 
Awake to thy eternal day ! Amoi. 




'Tis true, Idoloclastes Satyrane ! 
(So call him, for so mingling blame with praise 
And smiles with anxious looks, his earliest friends, 
Masking his birth-name, wont to character 
His wild-wood fancy and impetuous zeal,) 
'Tis true that, passionate for ancient truths. 
And honouring with religious love the Great 
Of elder times, he hated to excess, 
With an unquiet and intolerant scorn. 
The hollow puppets of an hollow Age, ■'•' 

Ever idolatrous, and changing ever 
Its worthless Idols ! Learning, Power, and Time, 
(Too much of all) thus wasting in vain war 
Of fervid colloquy. Sickness, 'tis true, 
Whole years of weary days, besieged him close. 
Even to the gates and inlets of his life ! 
But it is true, no less, that strenuous, firm, 
And with a natural gladness, he maintained 
The Citadel unconquered, and in joy 
Was strong to follow the delightful Muse. 20 

For not a hidden Path, that to the shades 
Of the beloved Parnassian forest leads. 
Lurked undiscovered by him ; not a rill 
There issues from the fount of Hippocrene. 
But he had traced it upward to its source, 
Through open glade, dark glen, and secret dell. 
Knew the gay wild flowers on its banks, and culled 
Its med'cinable herbs. Yea, oft alone, 
Piercing the long-neglected holy cave. 
The haunt obscure of old Philosophy, ^° 

He bade with lifted torch its starry walls 
Sparkle, as erst they sparkled to the flame 
Of odorous Lamps tended by Saint and Sage. 
framed for calmer times and nobler hearts ! 
studious Poet, eloquent for truth ! 
Philosopher ! contemning wealth and death. 
Yet docile, childlike, full of Life and Love ! 
Here, rather than on monumental stone, 



This record of thy wortli thy Friend inscribes, 
Thoughtful, with quiet tears upon his cheek. '" 



Sad lot, to have no Hope ! Though lowly kneeling 
He fain w(nild frame a prayer within his breast. 
Would fain entreat for some sweet breath of healing, 
That his sickljody might h'ave ease and rest ; 
He strove in vain ! the dull sighs from his chest 
Against his ^vill the stitiing load revealing, ^ 

Tliougfi Nature forced ; tliough like some captive guest, 
Some royal prisoner at his conqueror's feast. 
An alien's restless mood but half concealing, 
The sternness on his gentle brow confessed 
Sickness within and miserable feeling : 
Though obscure pangs made curses of his dreams, 
And dreaded sleep, each night repelled in vain, 
Each night was scattered by its own loud screams : — 
Yet never could his heart command, though fain. 
One deep full wish to be no more in pain. 

That Hope, which was his inward bliss and boast. 
Which waned and died, yet ever near him stood. 
Though changed in nature, wander where he would — 
"T^'or Love's^ })esjn\ir is h\\\ Hope's jMuing (ihost — 
For this one hojie he makes his hourly moan, 
He wishes and can wish for this alone ! 
Pierced, as with light from Heaven, before its gleams 
(So the love-stricken xisionary ileems) 
l)isease would vanish, like a summer shower. 
Whose dews tling sunshine from the noon-tide bower ! 
Or let it stay ! yet this one Hope should give 
Such strength that he would bless his pains and live. 

I S I o. 


A swoRDED man whose trade is blood, 

In grief, in anger, and in fear. 
Thro' jungle, swamp, and torrent flood, 

I seek the wealth you hold so dear ! 

The dazzling charm of outward form. 
The power of gold, the pride of birth, 

Have taken Woman's heart by storm — 
Usurped the place of inward worth. 

Is not true Love of higher price 

Than outward Form, though fair to see, 

Wealth's glittering fairy-dome of ice, 
Or echo of proud ancestry ? — 

O ! Asra, Asra ! couldst thou see 

Into the bottom of my heart. 
There's such a mine of Love for thee, 

As almost might supply desert ! 

(This separation is, alas ! 

Too great a punishment to bear ; 
O ! take my life, or let me pass 

That life, that happy life, with her !) 

The perils, erst with steadfast eye 
Encountered, now I shrink to see — • 

Oh ! I have heart enough to die — 
Not half enough to part from Thee ! 





DoRMi, Jesu ! Mater ridet, 
Quee tarn dulcem somnum videt, 

Dormi, Jesu ! blandule ! 
Si non dormis, Mater plorat, 
Inter fila cantans orat, 

Blande, veni, somnule. 


Sleep, sweet babe ! my cares beguiling : 
Mother sits beside thee smiling : 

Sleep, my darling, tenderly ! 

If thou sleep not, mother mourneth, 

Singing as her wiiccl she turneth : 

Come, soft slumber, balmil\- 1 


'() A LADY OFFKNDI.I) i'.V A SP()R'I"I\'li 
OBSFRVATION, I'll Vi" WCmi'.N llA\t 

Nay, dearest Anna ! why so grave ? 

I said, you had no soul, 'tis true ! 
For what you arc you cannot luivc, 

Tis 1 that have one, since I first hatl you ! 

iSi !. 


I H.wi: lioard of reasons manifold 
\\\\\ Love nuist needs be blind, 



But this the best of all I hold— 
His eyes are in his mind. 

What outward form and feature are 

He guesseth but in part ; 
But that within is good and fair 

He seeth with the heart. 



Ere the birth of my life, if I wish'd it or no, 
No question was asked me — it could not be so 1 
If the life was the question, a thing sent to try, 
And to live on be Yes ; what can No be ? — to die. 

nature's answer 

Is't returned as 'twas sent ? Is't no worse for the wear ? 
Think first, what you are ! Call to mind what you were ! 
I gave you Innocence, I gave you Hope, 
Gave Health, and Genius, and an ample scope. 
Return you me Guilt, Lethargy, Despair ? 
Make out the invent' ry ; inspect, compare ! 
Then die — if die you dare ! 



The Butterfly the ancient Grecians made 
The Soul's fair emblem, and its only name* — 
But of the Soul, escaped the slavish trade 
Of mortal life ! — For in this earthly frame 
Ours is the reptile's lot — much toil, much blame — 
Manifold motions making little speed, 
And to deform and kill the things whereon we feed. 


* Psyche means both Butterfly and Soul. 


On the wide level of a mountain's head. 
(I knew not where, hut 'twas some faery i)lace) 
Their ])inions, ostricli-liko, iov sails outspread. 
Two lovely children run an endless race, 

A Sister and a Brother ! 

This far outstrippetl the other ; 
Yet ever runs She with reverted face, 
And looks and listens for tlu' Hoy behind : 

For He, alas ! is blind I 
O'er r()U,L;h and smooth with even step He passed. 
And knows not wluther he be lirst or last. 

I S I 2. 




Hear, sweet spirit, hear the spell. 
Lest a blacker charm compel ! 
So shall the midnight breezes swell 
With thy deep long-lingering knell. 

And at evening evermore, 

In a chapel on the shore. 

Shall the chaunters sad and saintly, 

Yellow tapers bm^ning faintly, 

Doleful masses chaunt for Thee — 

Miserere Do mine ! 

Hark ! the cadence dies away 
On the quiet moonlight sea : 

The boatmen rest their oars and say. 
Miserere Domine ! 




Sandoval. You loved the daughter of Don Manrique ? 

Earl Henry. Loved ? 

Sand. Did you not say you wooed her ? 

Earl H. Once I loved 

Her whom I dared not woo ! 

Sand. And wooed, perchance, 

One whom you loved not ! 

Earl H. Oh ! I were most base, 

Not loving Oropeza. True, I wooed her, 
Hoping to heal a deeper wound ; but she 
Met my advances with impassioned pride, 
That kindled love with love. And when her sire. 
Who in his dream of hope already grasped 
The golden circlet in his hand, rejected ^° 

My suit with insult, and in memory 




Of ancient feuds poured curses on my head, 

Her blessings overtook and baffled them ! 

But thou art stern, and with unkindhng'countenance 

Art inly reasoning whilst thou listenest to me. 

Sand. Anxiously, Henry ! reasoning anxiously. 
But Oropeza — 

Earl H. Blessings gather round her ! 
Within this wood there winds a secret passage, 
Beneatii the walls, which opens out at length 
Into the gloomiest covert of the garden. — -" 

The night ere my departure to the army, 
She, nothing trembling, led me through that gloom, 
And to that covert by a silent stream. 
Which, with one star reflected near its marge. 
Was the sole object visible around mc. 
No leaflet stirred : the air was almost sultry ; 
So deep, so dark, so close, the umbrage o'er us ! 
No leaflet stirred ; — yet pleasure hung upon 
The gloom and stillness of the balmv night-air. 
A liitlc further on an arbour stood, ^' 

Fragrant with flowering trees — I well remember 
What an imcertain glimmer in the darkness 
Their snow-white blossoms made— thither she led 

To that sweet bower ! Then Oropeza trembled — 
I heard her heart beat — if 'twere not my own. 

Sand. A rude and scaring note, mv friend ! 

Earl II. ' Oh ! no! 

I have small memory of aught but pleasure. 
The inquietudes of fear, like lesser streams 
Still (lowing, still were lost in those of love : 
So love grew mightier from the fear, and Nature, *• 

Fleeing from I'ain, sheltered herself in Joy. 
The stars above our heads were dim and steady, 
Likejeyes suffusrd with rapture— Life was in us ; 
We were all life, each atom of our frames 
A living soul - 1 vowed to die {ox luM" : 
With tlie faint voice of one who, having spoken. 
Relapses into blessedness, I vowed it : 
That solemn vow. a whisptM" scarcely heird, 
A nii'.rnuu breathed against a lad\'s car. — 



Oh ! there is joy above the name of pleasure, "" 

Deep self-possession, an intense repose. 

Sand, [with a sarcastic smile). No other than as 
eastern sages paint 
The God, who floats upon a Lotos leaf, 
Dreams for a thousand ages, — then awaking. 
Creates a world, and smiling at the bubble 
Relapses into bliss. 

Earl H. Ah ! was that bliss 

Feared as an alien, and too vast for man ? 
For suddenly, impatienM; of its silence. 
Did Oropeza, starting, grasp my forehead. 
I caught her arms ; the veins were swelling on them. **" 
Through the dark bower she sent a hollow voice, 
" Oh ! what if all betray me ? what if thou ? " 
I swore, and with an inward thought that seemed 
The purpose and the substance of my being, 
I swore to her, that were she red with guilt, 
I would exchange my unblenched state with hers. — 
Friend ! by that winding passage, to that bower 
I now will go — all objects there will teach me 
Unwavering love, and singleness of heart. 
Go, Sandoval ! I am prepared to meet her — - '" 

Say nothing of me — I myself will seek her — 
Nay, leave me. Friend ! I cannot bear the torment 
And keen inquiry of that scanning eye. — 

Earl Henry retires into the wood. 

Sand, {alone.) O Henry ! always striv'st thou to be 

By thine own act — yet art thou never great 
But by the inspiration of great passion. 
The whirl-blast comes, the desert-sands rise up 
And shape themselves : from Earth to Heaven they 

As though they were the pillars of a temple, 
Built by Omnipotence in its own honour ! <*° 

But the blast pauses, and their shaping spirit 
Is fled : the mighty columns were but sand. 
And lazy snakes trail o'er the level ruins ! 




My Maker ! of thy power the trace 
In every creature's form and face 

The wond'ring soul surveys : 
Thy Wisdom, infinite above 
Seraphic thought, a Father's love 

As infinite displays ! 

From all that meets or eye or ear. 
There falls a genial holy fear 
Which, like the heavy dew of morn, 
Refreshes while it bows the heart forlorn ! 

Great God ! thy works how wondrous fair I 
Yet sinful man didst thou declare 

The whole Earth's voice and mind ! 
Lord, cv'n as Thou sll-prcscnt art, 
O may we still with heedful heart 

Thy presence know and find ! 
Then, come, what will, of weal or woe, 
Joy's bosom-spring shall steady flow : 
For though 'tis Heaven Thyself to see. 
Where but thy S/iadoii,- falls, Grief cannot be ! — 



WITH falconer's " SHIPWRECK " 

An 1 iml by Cam or Isis, famous streams. 

In arclu'-d groves, the youthful jmh-I's choice ; 

Nor while hall-listening, mid dehcious dreams, 
To harp and song from lady's hand and voice ; 

Nor yet while gazing in sublimer mood 
On cliff, or cataract, in Alpine dell : 

Nor in dim rave with bladdery sea-wind stn-wed, 
Framing wild fancies to the ocean's swell ; 



Our Sea-Bard sang this song ! which still he sings, 
And sings for thee, sweet Friend ! Hark, Pity, hark ! 

Now mounts, now totters on the Tempest's wings, 
Now groans, and shivers, the replunging Bark ! 

" Cling to the shrouds ! " In vain ! The breakers roar — 
Death shrieks ! With two alone of all his clan 

Forlorn the Poet paced the Grecian shore, 
No classic roamer, but a ship-wrecked man ! 

Say then, what Muse inspired these genial strains, 

And lit his spirit to so bright a flame ? 
The elevating thought of suffered pains. 

Which gentle hearts shall mourn ; but, chief, the name 

Of Gratitude ! Remembrances of Friend, 
Or absent or no more ! Shades of the Past, 

Which Love makes Substance ! Hence to thee I send, 
O dear as long as life and memory last ! 

I send with deep regards of heart and head, 

Sweet Maid, for friendship formed ! this work to thee : 

And thou, the while thou canst not choose but shed 
A tear for Falconer, wilt remember me. 




If dead, we cease to be ; if total gloom 

Swallow up Life's brief flash for aye, we fare 
As summer-gusts, of sudden birth and doom. 

Whose sound and motion not alone declare, 
But are their whole of being ! if the breath 

Be Life itself, and not its task and tent, 
If even a soul like Milton's can know death ; 

O Man ! thou vessel purposeless, unmeant. 
Yet drone-hive strange of phantom purposes ! 

372 SONG 

Surplus of Nature's dread activity, 
Wliicli, as she gazed on some nigh-linished vase, 
Retreating slow, with meditative pause, 

She formed with restless hands unconsciously ! 
Blank accident ! Nothing's anomaly ! 

If rootless thus, tlu:s substanceless thy state. 
Go, weigh thy dreams, and be thy hopes, thy fears, 
The counter-weights ! — Thy laughter and thy tears 

Mean but themselves, each fittest to create. 
And to repay the other ! Why rejoices 

Thy heart with hollow joy for hollow good ? 

Why cowl thy face beneath the Mourner's hood, 
Why waste thy sighs, and thy lamenting voices, 

Image of Image, Ghost of Ghosth* Elf, 
That such a thing as thou feel'st warm or cold ? 
Yet what and whence thy gain, if thou withhold 

These costless shadows of thy shadowy self ? 
Be sad ! be glad ! be neither ! seek, or shun ! 
Thou hast no reason why ! Thou canst have none ; 
Thy Being's Being is contradiction. 




A SUNNY shaft did I behold, 
From skv to earth it slanted : 

And poised therein a bird so bold — 
Sweet bird, thou wert enchanted ! 

He sunk, he rose, he twinkled, he trolled 
Within that shaft of sunny mist ; 

His eyes of fire, his beak of gold, 
All else of amethyst ! 


And thus he sang : " Adieu ! adieu ! 
Love's dreams prove seldom true. 
The blossoms they make no delay : 
The sparkling dew-drops will not stay. 
Sweet month of May, 
We must away ; 
Far, far away i 

To-day ! to-day ! " 

181 5. 



Up, up ! ye dames, ye lasses gay 1 
To the meadows trip away. 
'Tis you must tend the flocks this morn, 
And scare the small birds from the corn. 
Not a soul at home may stay : 
For the shepherds must go 
With lance and bow 
To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day. 

Leave the hearth and leave the house 
To the cricket and the mouse : 
Find grannam out a sunny seat. 
With babe and lambkin at her feet. 
Not a soul at home may stay : 
For the shepherds must go 
With lance and bow 
To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day. 



It may indeed be phantasy, when I 
Essay to draw from all created things 
Deep, heartfelt, inward joy that closely clings ; 

And trace in leaves and flowers that round me lie 

Lessons of love and earnest piety. 


So let it be ; and if the wide world rings 

In mock of this belief, it brings 
Nor fear, nor grief, nor vain perplexity. 
So will I build my altar in the fields, 

And the blue sky my fretted dome shall be, 
And the sweet fragrance that the wild flower yield? 

Shall be the incense I will yield to Thee, 
Thee only (iod ! and thou shalt not despise 
I'~\on me. the j^riest of tliis jioor sacrifice. 




Not hers 
To win the sense by words of rhetoric, 
Lijvblossoms breathing perishable sweets ; 
Hut by the jiower of the informing W'onl 
KoU sounding onward through a thousanil ^•oars 
Ihr d((|) i>rophctic bodements. 

TiiL: j;arr siDi-: of natl he 

Yon row of bleak and visionary pines, 
Hy twilight glimpse discernt-d, mark ! how tlu\- llee 
From the lierce si-a blast, all lliiir tn-sses wild 
Streaming before them ! 



They shrink in as moles 

(Nature's mute monks, live mandrakes of the ground) 
Creep back from Light — then listen for its sound ; — 
See but to dread, and dread they know not why — 
The natural alien of their negative eye. 



'Tis a strange place, this Limbo ! — not a Place, 

Yet name it so ; — where Time and weary Space 

Fettered from flight, with night-mare sense of fleeing, 

Strive for their last crepuscular half-being ; — ■ 

Lank Space, and scytheless Time with branny hands 

Barren and soundless as the measuring sands, 

Not marked by flit of Shades, — unmeaning they 

As moonlight on the dial of the day ! 

But that is lovely — looks like human Time, — 

An old man with a steady look sublime. 

That stops his earthly task to watch the skies ; 

But he is blind — a statue hath such eyes ; — 

Yet having moonward turned his face by chance. 

Gazes the orb with moon-like countenance. 

With scant white hairs, with foretop bald and high, 

He gazes still, — his eyeless face all eye ; — 

As 'twere an organ full of silent sight. 

His whole face seemeth to rejoice in light ! 

Lip touching lip, all moveless, bust and limb — 

He seems to gaze at that which seems to gaze on him ! 

No such sweet sights doth Limbo den immure, 
Walled round, and made a spirit-jail secure, 



By the mere horror of blank Xaught-at-all, 

Whose circumambience dotli these ghosts enthral. 

A lurid thought is growthless, dull Privation, 

Yet tliat is but a Purgatory curse ; 

Hell knows a fear far worse, 

A fear — a future state ; — 'tis positive Negation ! 



The following burlesque on the Fichtean Egoismus may, 
perhaps, be amusing to the few who have studied the system, 
and to those who are unacquainted with it, may convey as toler- 
able a likeness of Fichte's idealism as can be expected from an 
avowed caricature. [S. T. C] 

The Categorical Imperative, or the Annunciation of the New 
Teutonic God. 'EriiKNKAIlIAN : a tlithyrambic Ode. by 
Querkopf Von Klubstick, Grammarian, and Subrector in Gym- 
nasia. . . . (Uiog. Lit. Cap. i.\. noti-.) 

Eu ! Dei vices gerens, ipse Divits, 

(Speak English, friend !) the God Imperativus, 

Here on this market-cross aloud I cry : 

"1,1,1! I itself I ! 

The form and the substance, the what and the why. 

The when and the where, and the low and the high, 

The inside and outside, the earth and the sky, 

I, you, and he, aiul he, you ami I, 

All souls and all bodies are 1 itself I ! 

All I it-self 1 ! 

(l'\)ols ! a truce with this starting !) 

All my 1 ! all my 1 ! 
He'.sja heretic dog who but adils Betty Martin I " 

Thus cried the (iod with higii imperial tone : 
In robe of stiflest state, that scoffed at beauty, 


A pronoun-verb imperative he shone — 

Then substantive and plural-singular grown, 

He thus spake on : — " Behold in I alone 

(For Ethics boast a syntax of their own) 

Or if in ye, yet as / doth depute ye, 

In O ! I, you, the vocative of duty ! 

I of the world's whole Lexicon the root ! 

Of the whole universe of touch, sound, sight. 

The genitive and ablative to boot : 

The accusative of wrong, the nom' native of right, 

And in all cases the case absolute ! 

Self-construed, I all other moods decline : 

Imperative, from nothing we derive us ; 

Yet as a super-postulate of mine, 

Unconstrued antecedence I assign, 

To X Y Z, the God Infinitivus! " 



Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn ? 
Where may the grave of that good man be ? — 
By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn, 
Under the twigs of a young birch tree ! 
The oak that in summer was sweet to hear. 
And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year. 
And whistled and roared in the winter alone. 
Is gone, — and the birch in its stead is grown. — 
The Knight's bones are dust. 
And his good sword rust ; — 
His soul is with the Saints, I trust. 





Mourn, Israel ! Sons of Israel, mourn ! 

Give utterance to the inward throe ! 
As wails, of her first love forlorn. 

The virgin ck\<l in robes of woe. 

Mourn the young Mother, snatched away 
I'roni Light and Life's ascending Sun ! 

Mourn for the babe, Death's voiceless prey, 
Earned by long pangs and lost ere won. 

Mourn the bright Rose that bloomed and went 
Ere half disclosed its vernal hue ! ^" 

Mourn the green bud, so rudely rent, 
It brake the stem on which it grew. 

Mourn for the iniiversal woe 

Witii solenm dirge and fault'ring tongue : 
For England's Lady is laid low. 

So dear, so lovely, and so young ! 

The blossoms on her Tree of Life 

Siione with the dews of recent bliss : 
Transplanted in that deadly strife. 

She phuks its fruits in Paradise. -" 

Mourn for the widowed Lord in chief. 

Who wails anil will not solaced be ! 
Mourn for the childless Father's grief, 

Tlie wedded Lover's agony ! 

Mourn for the Prince, who rose at morn 

To seek and bless the lirstling bud 
(H his own Rose, and found the thorn, 

Us point bedew'd with tears of blood. 



O press again that murmuring string ! 

Again bewail that princely Sire 1 ^" 

A destined Queen, a future King, 

He mourns on one funereal pyre. 

Mourn for Britannia's hopes decayed, 
Her daughters wail their dear defence ; 

Their fair example, prostrate laid. 
Chaste Love and fervid Linocence. 

While Grief in song shall seek repose, 

We will take up a Mourning yearly : 
To wail the blow that crushed the Rose, 

So dearly prized and loved so dearly. 


Long as the fount of Song o'erflows 

Will I the yearly dirge renew : 
Mourn for the firstling of the Rose 

That snapped the stem on which it grew. 

The proud shall pass, forgot ; the chill. 
Damp, trickling Vault their only mourner ! 

Not so the regal Rose, that still 

Clung to the breast which first had worn her ! 

O thou, who mark'st the Mourner's path 

To sad Jeshurun's Sons attend ! ^" 

Amid the Light' nings of thy Wrath 
The showers of Consolation send ! 

Jehovah frowns ! the Islands bow ! 

And Prince and People kiss the Rod ! — 
Their dread chastising Judge wert thou ! 

Be thou their Comforter, O God ! 

I s 1 7. 


With Donne, whose Muse on dromedary trots, 
Wreathe iron pokers into true-love knots ; 
Rhyme's sturdy crijiple, Fancy's maze and clue, 
Wit's forge and lire-blast, Meaning's press and screw. 




O ! IT is pleasant, with a heart at ease. 

Just after sunset, or by moonlight skies. 
To make the shifting clouds be what you please. 

Or let the easily persuaded eyes 
Own each quaint likeness issuing from the mould 

Of a friend's fancy ; or with head bent low 
And cheek aslant see rivers flow of gold 

'Twixt crimson banks ; and then, a traveller, go 
From mount to mount through Cloudland. gorgeoin l.uiil ! 

Or list'ning to the tide, with closed sight, 
I^e that blind bard, who on the Chian strand 

By those deep sounds jiossessed witli inward light, 
Beheld the lliatl and the Odyssee 
Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea. 

1 S I g. 



Whene'er the mist, that stands 'twixt God and thee 
Defecates to a pure transparency, 
That intercepts no hght and adds no stain — 
There Reason is, and then begins her reign ! 

But, alas ! 

tu stesso ti fai grosso 

Col falso imn^aginar, si che non vedi 
Cio che vedre: ti, se I'avessi scosso. 

Dante, Paradiso, Canto i. 



A Hebrew Dirge and Hymn, chaunted in the Great Synagogue, 
St. James' pi. Aldgate, on the Day of the Funeral of King George 
III. of blessed memory. By Hyman Hurwitz, of Highgate, 
Translated by a Friend. 


Oppressed, confused, with grief and pain, 
And inly shrinking from the blow. 

In vain I seek the dirgeful strain, 
The wonted words refuse to flow. 

A fear in every face I find, 

Each voice is that of one who grieves ; 
And all my Soul, to grief resigned, 

Reflects the sorrow it receives. 

The Day-Star of our glory sets ! 

Our King has breathed his latest breath ! ^^ 
Each heart its wonted pulse forgets. 

As if it own'd the pow'r of death. 



Our Crown, our heart's Desire is fled I 

Britannia's glory moults its wing ! 
Let us, with ashes on our head, 

Raise up a mourning for our King. 

Lo ! of his beams the Day-Star shorn,* 
Sad gleams the Moon through cloudy veil ! 

The Stars are dim ! Our Nobles mourn ; 
The Matrons weep, their Children wail. 

No age records a King so just, 

His virtues numerous as his days ; 
The Lord Jehovah was his trust. 

And truth with mercy ruled his ways. 

His Love was bounded by no Chme ; 

Each diverse Race, each distant Clan 
He governed by this truth sublime, 

" God only knows the heart — not man." 

His word appalled the sons of pride, 

Inicjuity far winged her way ; 
Deceit and fraud were scattered wide. 

And truth resumed her sacred sway. 

He soothed the wretched, and the prey 

From impious tyranny he tore ; 
He stayed th' Usurj^er's iron sway, 

And bade the Spoiler waste no more. 

Tiiou too, Jeshurun's Daughter ! thou. 

Th' oppressed of nations and the scorn ! 
Diilst hail on his benignant brow 

A safety dawning like the morn. 

The scoff of each unfeeling mind, 

Thy doom was hard, and keen thy grief ; 

Hi-ncath his tluoni'. jhmcc thou didst lind. 
Anil blest the hanil that gave relief. 

* The aiitlior. in the spirit of Hebrew Poetry, here represents 
the Crown, the IVeruKC. ami the Conunonalty, by the tigurative 
expression of tlic Sun, Moon, and Stars. 




E'en when a fatal cloud o'erspread 
The moonlight splendour of his sway, 

Yet still the light remained, and shed 
Mild radiance on the traveller's way. 

But he is gone— the Just ! the Good ! 

Nor could a Nation's prayer delay 
The heavenly meed, that long had stood 

His portion in the realms of day. 

Beyond the mighty Isle's extent 

The mightier Nation mourns her Chief : 

Him Judah's Daughter shall lament. 
In tears of fervour, love and grief. 

Britannia mourns in silent grief ; 

Her heart a prey to inward woe. 
In vain she strives to find relief. 

Her pang so great, so great the blow. 

Britannia ! Sister ! woe is me ! 

Full fain would I console thy woe. 
But, ah ! how shall I comfort thee. 

Who need the balm 1 would bestow ? 

United then let us repair, 

As round our common Parent's grave ; 
And pouring out our heart in prayer, 

Our heav'nly Father's mercy crave. 

Until Jehovah from his throne 

Shall heed his suffering people's fears ; 

Shall turn to song the Mourner's groan. 
To smiles of joy the Nation's tears. 

Praise to the Lord ! Loud praises sing ! 

And bless Jehovah's righteous hand ! 
Again he bids a George, our King, 

Dispense his blessings to the Land. 







O throned in Heav'n ! Sole King of kings, 
Jehovah ! hear Thy Children's prayers and sighs ! 
Thou Binder of the broken heart ! with wings 
Of healing on Thy people rise ! 
Thy mercies, Lord, are sweet ; 
And Peace and Mercy meet 
Before thy Judgment seat : 
Lord, hear us ! we entreat ! 

When angrv clouds Thy throne surround. 
E'en from the cloud thou bid'st thy mercy shine : 
And ere thy righteous vengeance strikes the wound, 

Thy grace prepares the balm divine ! 
Thv mercies, Lord, are sweet ; &c. 

The Parent tree thy hand did spare — 
It fell not till the ripened fruit was won : 
Beneath its shade the Scion flourished fair, 

And for the Sire thou gav'st the Son. &c. 

This thv own Vine, which thou didst rear, 
And train up for us from the royal root. 
Protect, O Lord ! and to the Nations near 

Long let it shelter yield, and fruit, &c. 

Lord, comfort thou the royal line : 
Let Peace and Joy watch round us hand in hand. 
Our Nobles visit with thv grace divine, ^"^ 

And banish sorrow from the land. 
Thy mercies, Lord, are sweet ; 
And Peace and Mercy meet 
Before Thv Judgment seat : 
Lord, hear us ! we entreat ! 





Verse, a breeze mid blossoms straying, 
Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee — 
Both were mine ! Life went a-maying 
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, 
When I was young ! 

When I was young ? — Ah, woful When ! 
Ah ! for the change 'twixt Now and Then ! 
This breathing house not built with hands, 
This body that does me grievous wrong, 
O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands. 
How lightly then it flashed along ! 
Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore, 
On winding lakes and rivers wide. 
That ask no aid of sail or oar. 
That fear no spite of wind or tide, — 
Nought cared this body for wind or weather 
When Youth and I lived in't together ! 

Flowers are lovely ; Love is flower-like ; 
Friendship is a sheltering tree : 
O ! the joys, that came down shower-like. 
Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, 20 

Ere I was old ! 

Ere I was old ? Ah woful Ere, 

Which tells me, Youth's no longer here ! 

Youth ! for years so many and sweet, 
'Tis known, that Thou and I were one, 
ril think it but a fond conceit- 
It cannot be that Thou art gone ! 

Thy vesper-bell hath not yet tolled : — 

And thou wert aye a masker bold ! ^'^ 

W^hat strange disguise hast now put on. 

To make believe, that thou art gone ? 

1 see these locks in silvery slips. 
This drooping gait, this altered size : 
But Spring-tide blossoms on thy lips, 

385 2B 


And Tears take sunshine from thine eyes ! 
Life is but Thought : so think I will 
That Youth and I are house-mates still. 

Dew-drops are the gems of morning, 
But the tears of mournful eve ! 
Where no hope is, Life's a warning 
That only ser\^es to make us grieve, 

When we are old : 
That only serv^es to make us grieve 
With oft and tedious taking-leave, 
Like some poor nigh-related guest, 
That may not rudely be dismissed ; 
Yet hath outstayed his welcome while. 
And tells the jest without the smile. 




Or. I lie Flowcr-thioCs Apoloi^y, for a rol)l>cry coniniittt-d in 
]Mr. aiul Mrs. Cliisholin's R.-irckii, on Suiulay nioniing. May 25. 
1823, bclwcen the hours of eleven and twelve. 

" FiH, Mr. Coleridge ! — and can this be you ? 
l-Jrcak two commandments ? and in church-time too I 
Have \()u not heard, or have you heard in \aiii. 
The birth-and-|iarentage-recording strain ? 
Confessions shrill, that out-shrilled mackerel drown — 
Fresh from the drop, the youth not yet cut down ; — 
Letter to sweet-heart — the last dying speech — 
Ami didn't all this begin in Sabbath-breach ? 
Y(ni, tliat knew better ! In broad open day. 
Steal in, steal out, and steal our flowers away ? 
What could possess you ? Ah ! sweet youth, I fear 
The Chaji with horns and tail was at your car ! " 
Such sounds of late, acctising fancv brought 


Imoiu fair Chisholm to the Poet's thought. 


Now hear the meek Parnassian youth's reply : — 
A bow, a pleading look, a downcast eye, — 
And then : 

" Fair Dame ! a visionary wight, 
Hard by your hill-side mansion sparkling white, 
His thoughts all hovering round the Muses' home, 
Long hath it been your Poet's wont to roam, ^^ 

And many a morn, on his becharmed sense 
So rich a stream of music issued thence, 
He deemed himself, as it flowed warbling on. 
Beside the vocal fount of Helicon ! 
But when, as if to settle the concern, 
A Nymph too he beheld, in many a turn. 
Guiding the sweet rill from its fontal urn, — 
Say, can you blame ? — No ! none that saw and heard 
Could blame a bard, that he thus inly stirred ; 
A muse beholding in each fervent trait, ^° 

Took Mary H for Polly Hymnia ! 

Or haply as there stood beside the maid 
One loftier form in sable stole arrayed. 
If with regretful thought he hailed in thee 
Chisholm, his long-lost friend, Mol Pomene ! 
But most of you, soft warblings, I complain ! 
'Twas ye that from the bee-hive of my brain 
Lured the wild fancies forth, a freakish rout, 
And witched the air with dreams turned inside out. 

" Thus all conspired — each power of eye and ear, *° 

And this gay month, th' enchantress of the year. 

To cheat poor me (no conjuror, God wot !) 

And Chisholm's self accomplice in the plot. 

Can you then wonder if I went astray ? 

Not bards alone, nor lovers mad as they ; — 

All Nature day-dreams in the month of May. 

And if I plucked ' each flower that sweetest blows/- — 

Who walks in sleep, needs follow must his nose. 


Thus, long accustomed on the twy-forked hill,* 

* The English Parnassus is remarkable for its two summits of 
unequal height, the lower denominated Hampstead, the higher 


To pluck lK)th Hower and floweret at my will : ^" 

The garden's maze, like No-man's-land, I tread, — 

Nor common law, nor statute in my head ; 

For mv own projwr smell, sight, fancv, feeling, 

With autocratic hand at once rc{iealing 

Five Acts of Parliament 'gainst jirivate stealing ! 

But yet from Chisholm who despairs of grace ? 

There's no spring-gun or man-trap in that face ! 

Let Moses then look black, and Aaron blue, 

That look as if they had little else to do : 

For Chisholm speaks. ' Poor youth I he's but a waif I *° 

The spoons all right ? the hen and chickens safe ? 

Well, well, he shall not forfeit our regards — 

The Eighth Commandment was not made for Bards ! " 


Whkre true Love burns. Desire is Love's pure flame ; 
It is the reflex of our earthly frame. 
That takes its meaning from the nobler part, 
And but translates the language of the heart. 

ITKS r Ai)\i;N'i' OF LO\'E 
[from Sydney's " arcadia "] 

O FAIR is Love's first ho|>e to gentle mind ! 
As Eve's first star thro' fleecy clouiUet peeping; 
And sweeter than the gentle south-west wind, 
O'er willowy meads and shadowetl waters creeping, 
And Ceres' golden fields ; — the sultry hind 
Meets it with brow uplift, and stavs his reaping. 




Friend pure of heart and fervent ! We have learnt 
A different lore ! We may not thus profane 
The Idea and Name of Him whose Absolute Wil 
Is Reason — Truth Supreme ! — Essential Order ! 




" One word with two meanings is the traitor's shield and shaft : 
and a sUt tongue be his blazon ! " 

Caucasian Proverb. 

" The Sun is not yet risen, 

But the dawn lies red on the dew : 

Lord Julian has stolen from the hunters away, 

Is seeking, Lady, for you. 

Put on your dress of green, 

Your buskins and your quiver ; 
Lord Julian is a hasty man, 

Long waiting brooked he never. 
I dare not doubt him, that he means 

To wed you on a day, ^° 

Your lord and master for to be, 

And you his lady gay. 

Lady ! throw your book aside ! 

1 would not that my Lord should chide." 

Thus spake Sir Hugh the vassal knight 

To Alice, child of old Du Clos, 
As spotless fair, as airy light 

As that moon-shiny doe, 
The gold star on its brow, her Sire's ancestral crest ! 



For ere the lark had left his nest, ^^ 

She in the garden l)o\ver below 
Sate looseh- wrapped in maiden white. 
Her face half drooping from the sight, 

A snow-droj) on a tuft of snow ! 

O close your eyes, and strive to see 

The studious maid, with book on knee. — 

Ah I earliest-opened Hower ; 
While yet with keen unblunted hght 
The morning star shone opposite 

The lattice of her bower — '" 

Alone of all the starry host. 

As if in prideful scorn 
Of flight and fear he stayed behind. 

To brave th' advancing morn. 

! Alice could read passing well, 
And she was conning then 

Dan Ovid's mazy tale of loves, 
And gods, and beasts, and men. 

The vassal's speech, his taunting vein. 

It thrilled like venom thro' her brain ; *° 

Yet never from the book 
She raised her head, nor diil she ileign 

The knight a single look. 

" Off, traitor friend ! how dar'st thou \\\ 

Thy wanton gaze on me ? 
And why, against my earnest suit. 

Does Julian send by thee ? 

" Go, tell thy Lord, that slow is sure : 
I'air sjuvd his shafts tt)-day ! 

1 follow here a stronger lure. ''" 
Antl chase a gentler prey." 

She .said : and with a baleful smili 

The vassal knight reeleil off — 
Like a luii,'t' billow from a bark 

Toileil in the dicp ^ca-trough. 



IT thrill'd like venom thko' her brain 


That shouldering sideways in mid plunge, 

Is traversed by a flash, 
And staggering onward, leaves the ear 

With duU and distant crash. 

And Alice sate with troubled mien ^^ 

A moment ; for the scoff was keen, 

And thro' her veins did shiver ! 
Then rose and donn'd her dress of green, 

Her buskins and her quiver. 

There stands the flow' ring may- thorn tree ! 
From thro' the veiling mist you see 

The black and shadowy stem ; — 
Smit by the Sun the mist in glee 
Dissolves to lightsome jewelry — 

Each blossom hath its gem ! "" 

With tear-drop glittering to a smile, 
The gay maid on the garden-stile 

Mimics the hunter's shout. 
" Hip ! Florian, hip ! To horse, to horse ! 

Go, bring the palfrey out. 

" My Julian's out with all his clan. 

And, bonny boy, you wis, 
Lord Julian is a hasty man. 

Who comes late, comes amiss." 

Now Florian was a stripling squire, ^° 

A gallant boy of Spain, 
That tossed his head in joy and pride. 
Behind his Lady fair to ride. 

But blushed to hold her train. 

The huntress is in her dress of green, — 
And forth they go ; she with her bow, 

Her buskins and her quiver ! — 
The squire — no younger e'er was seen — 
With restless arm and laughing een. 

He makes his javelin quiver. ^^ 


And had not Alice stayed the race 
And stopped to see, a moment's space, 

The whole great globe of light 
Give the last parting kiss-like touch 
To the eastern ridge, it lacked not much, 

They had o'erta'en the knight. 

It clianccd that up the covert lane. 

Where Julian waiting stood, 
A neighbour knight pricked on to join 

The huntsmen in the wood. ""' 

And with him must Lord Julian go. 

The' with an angered mind : 
Betrothed not wedded to his bride, 

In vain he sought, 'twixt shame and pride, 

Excuse to stay behind. 

He bit his lip, he wrung his glove. 
He looked around, he looked above, 

But pretext none could find or frame. 
Alas ! alas ! and well a-day ! 

It grieves me sore to think, to say, '*" 

That names so seldom meet with Love, 

Yet Love wants courage without a name ! 

Straight from the forest's skirt the trees 

O'er-branching, made an aisle. 
Where hermit old might pace and chaunt 

As in a minster's pile. 

From underneath its leafy screen. 

And from the twilight shade, 
You ])ass at once into a green, 

A green and lightsome glade. *-° 

And ihne Lord Julian sate on steed ; 

Behiml him, in a rouiul, 
Stood knight ami s<iuire, and menial train ; 
Against the leash the greyhounds strain ; 

The horses ])a\ved the ground. 


When up the alley green, Sir Hugh 

Spurred in upon the sward, 
And mute, without a word, did he 

Fall in behind his lord. 

Lord Juhan turned his steed half round, — 1^° 

" What ! doth not Alice deign 
To accept your loving convoy, knight ? 
Or doth she fear our woodland sleight, 

And joins us on the plain ? " 

With stifled tones'^the knight replied, 
And looked askance on either side, — 

" Nay, let the hunt proceed ! — 
The Lady's message that I bear, 
I guess would scantly please your ear, 

And less deserves your heed. ^^° 

" You sent betimes. Not yet unbarred 

I found the middle door ; — 
Two stirrers only met my eyes, 

Fair Alice, and one more. 

" I came unlooked for : and, it seemed, 

In an unwelcome hour ; 
And found the daughter of Du Clos 

Within the latticed bower. 

*' But hush ! the rest may wait. If lost, 

No great loss, I divine ; i^" 

And idle words will better suit 
A fair maid's lips than mine." 

" God's wrath ! speak out, man," Julian cried, 
O'ermastered by the sudden smart ; — 

And feigning wrath, sharp, blunt, and rude, 

The knight his subtle shift pursued. — 

" Scowl not at me : command my skill, 

To lure your hawk back, if you will, 
But not a woman's heart. 


" ' Go ! (said she) tell him, — slow is sure ; 

Fair speed his shafts to-day ! 
I follow here a stronger lure, 

And chase a gentler prey.' 

" The game, pardie, was full in sight, 
That then did, if I saw aright, 

The fair dame's eyes engage ; 
For turning, as I took my ways, 
I saw them fixed with steadfast gaze 

Full on her w-anton page." 

The last word of the traitor knight 

It had but entered Julian's ear, — 
From two o'crarching oaks between. 
With glist'ning lielm-like caj) is seen, 
Horn on in giddy cheer, 

A youth, that ill his steed can guide ; 
Yet with reverted face doth ride, 
As answering to a voice, 



LINES 395 

That seems at once to laugh and chide — 
" Not mine, dear mistress," still he cried, 
" Tis this mad filly's choice." is" 

With sudden bound, beyond the boy, 
See ! see ! that face of hope and joy, 

That regal front ! those cheeks aglow ! 
Thou needed'st but the crescent sheen, 
A quivered Dian to have been. 

Thou lovely child of old Du Clos ! 

Dark a,s a dream Lord Julian stood. 
Swift as a dream, from forth the wood, 

Sprang "on the plighted Maid ! 
With fatal aim, and frantic force, ^^^ 

The shaft was hurled !— a lifeless corse. 
Fair Alice from her vaulting horse. 

Lies bleeding on the glade. 

? 1825. 



What though the chilly wide-mouth'd quacking chorus 

From the rank swamps of murk Reviewland croak : 

So was it, neighbour, in the times before us, 

When Momus, throwing on his Attic cloak, 

Romp'd with the Graces ; and each tickled Muse 

(That Turk, Dan Phoebus, whom bards call divine, 

Was married to — at least, he kept — all nine) 

Fled, but still with reverted faces ran ; 

Yet, somewhat the broad freedoms to excuse, 

They had allured the audacious Greek to use, 

Swore they mistook him for their own good man. 

This Momus — Aristophanes on earth 

Men call'd him — maugre all his wit and worth, 


Was croaked and gabbled at. How, then, should you, 

Or I, friend, hope to 'scape the skulking crew ? 

No ! laugh, and say aloud, in tones of glee, 

" I hate the quacking tribe, and they hate me ! " 




Found written on the blank leaf at the beginning of Butler's 
*' Book of the Church " (1825) 


I NOTE the moods and feelings men betray, 

And heed them more than aught they do or say — 

Tlic lingering ghosts of many a secret deed 

Still-born or haply strangled in its birth ; 

These best reveal the smooth man's inward creed ! 

These mark the spot where lies the treasure Worth ! 

Milner made up of impudence and trick. 
With cloven tongue prepared to hiss and lick. 
Rome's brazen serpent — boldly dares discuss 
The roasting of thv heart, O brave John Huss I '° 

And with grim triumph and a truculent glee 
Absolves anew the Pope-wrought perfidy, 
That made an ICmpiro's plighteil faith a lie. 
And tixed a broad stare on the Devil's eye — 
(Pleased with the guilt, yet envy-stung at heart 
To stand outmastered in his t)wn black art !) 
Yet Milner— 


Knough of Milner ! we're agreed, 


Who now defends would then have done the deed. 
But who not feels Persuasion's gentle sway, 
Who but must meet the proffered hand half way 20 

When courteous Butler — 

POET (aside) 

(Rome's smooth go-between !) 


Laments the advice that soured a milky queen — 
(For " bloody " all enlightened men confess 
An antiquated error of the press :) 
Who rapt by zeal beyond her sex's bounds, 
With actual cautery staunched the Church's wounds ! 
And tho' he deems, that with too broad a blur 
We damn the French and Irish massacre. 
Yet blames them both — and thinks the Pope might err ! 
What think you now ? Boots it with spear and shield 
Against such gentle foes to take the field 3i 

Whose beckoning hands the mild Caduceus wield ? 


W^hat think I now ? Even what I thought before ; — 
What Milner boasts though Butler may deplore, 
Still I repeat, words lead me not astray 
When the shown feeling points a different way. 
Smooth Butler can say grace at slander's feast, 
And bless each haut gout cooked by monk or priest ; 
Leaves the full lie on Milner's gong to swell. 
Content with half-truths that do just as well ; ^" 

But duly decks his mitred comrade's flanks, 
And with him shares the Irish nation's thanks ! 

So much for you, my Friend ! who own a Church, 
And would not leave your inother in the lurch ! 
But when a Liberal asks me what I think — 
Scared by the blood and soot of Cobbett's ink, 
And Jeffrey's glairy phlegm and Connor's foam. 
In search of some safe parable I roam — 
An emblem sometimes may comprise a tome ! 


Disclaimant of his uncaught grandsire's mood, ^" 

I see a tiger lap})ing kitten's food : 
And who shall blame him that he purrs ajiplause. 
When brother Brindle pleads the good old cause; 
And frisks his jiretty tail, and half unsheathes his claws ! 
Yet not the less, for modern lights unapt, 
I trust the bolts and cross-bars of the laws 
More than the Protestant milk all newly lapt, 
Inipcarling a tame wild-cat's whiskered jaws ! 



Sole Positive of Night ! 
Antipathist of Light ! 
Fate's only essence ! primal scorpion rod — 
The one permitted opposite of Ciod ! — 
Condens(^d blackness and abysmal storm 
Compacted to one sceptre 
Arms the Grasp enorm — 
The Intercepter — 
The substance that still casts the shadow 
Death !— 
The Dragon foul and fell — 
The unrevealable, 
And hiilden one, whose breath 
(ii\t's wind and fuel to the firi's of Hill ! — 
All I sole desp.iir 
( )t both tir cti-rnities in Heaviii ! 
Soli- intcnliit of all-beilewing jirayer, 
The all-compassionate ! 
Save to the Lamixuls Seven 
Revealed to none of all th' Angelic State, 
Save to the Lam]\ids Seven, 
That watch the throne of lleaMii I 

? i8: 


Though veiled in spires of myrtle-wreath, 
Love is a sword which cuts its sheath, 
And through the clefts itself has made, 
We spy the flashes of the blade ! 

But through the clefts itself has made, 
We likewise see Love's flashing blade 
By rust consumed, or snapped in twain : 
And only hilt and stump remain. 



A BIRD, who for his other sins 
Had lived among the Jacobins ; 
Though like a kitten amid rats. 
Or callow tit in nest of bats. 
He much abhorred all democrats ; 
Yet nathless stood in ill report 
Of wishing ill to Church and Court, 
Though he'd nor claw, nor tooth, nor sting. 
And learnt to pipe God save the King ; 
Though each day did new feathers bring, ^^ 

All swore he had a leathern wing ; 
Nor polished wing, nor feathered tail. 
Nor down-clad thigh would aught avail ; 
And though — his tongue devoid of gall — 
He civilly assured them all : — 
" A bird am I of Phoebus' breed. 
And on the sunflower cling and feed ; 
My name, good sirs, is Thomas Tit ! " 
The bats would hail him Brother Cit, 
Or, at the furthest, cousin-german. 20 



At k-nj^'th tlic matter to determine, 
He publicly denounced the vermin ; 
He spared the mouse, he praised the owl ; 
But bats were neither flesh nor fowl. 
Blood-sucker, vampire, harpy, goul, 
Came in full clatter from his throat, 
Till his old nest-mates changed their note 
To hireling, traitor, and turncoat, — 
A base apostate who had sold 
His very teeth and claws for gold ; — '" 

And then his feathers ! — sharp the jest — 
" No doubt he feathered well his nest ! 
A Tit indeed ! aye, tit for tat — 
With place and title, brother Bat I 
We soon shall see how well he'll play 
Count Goldfinch, or Sir Joseph Jay I " 
Alas, poor Bird ! and ill-bestarred — 
Or rather let us say. poor Bard ! 
And henceforth quit the allegoric. 
With metaphor and simile, " 

For simple facts and style historic : — 
Alas, p,oor Bard ! no gold had he. 
Behind another's team he stept. 
And ploughed and sowed, while others reapt ; 
The work was his. but theirs the glory, 
Sic vos 110)1 nobis, his whole story. 
Besides, whate'er he wrote or said 
Came from his heart as well as head ; 
And thout^li ho never left in lurch 
His king, his country, or his church, ^" 

'Twas but to humour his own cynical 
Contcmi>t of doctrines Jacobinical ; 
To his own conscience only hearty, 
'Twas but by cliance he served the party ; — 
The self-same things had said and writ. 
Had Pitf been Fox, and Fox been Pitt ; 
( ontenl his t)wn applause to win, 
Wotild never dash thn^ugh thick and thin, 
And he can make, .so say the wise, 
No claim wlio makes no sacrifice ; — '° 

And Bard still less : — what claim had he, 


Who swore it vexed his soul to see 
So grand a cause, so proud a reahii, 
With Goose and Goody at the hehn 
\\'ho long ago had fall'n asunder ^ 
But for their rivals' baser blunder, 
The coward whine and Frenchified 
Slaver and slang of the other side !— 


Thus, his own whim his only bribe, 
Our Bard pursued his old A. B. C. 'o 

Contented if he could subscribe 
In fullest sense his name*E(T-7f7£ ; 
('Tis Punic Greek for " he hath stood ! ") 
Whate'er the men, the cause was good ; 
And therefore with a right good will, 
Poor fool, he fights their battles still. 
" Tush ! " squeaked the Bats ; — " a mere bravado 
To whitewash that base renegado ; 
*Tis plain unless you're blind or mad, 
His conscience for the bays he barters" ; — 8° 

And true it is — as true as sad — 
These circlets of green baize he had— 
But then, alas ! they were his garters ! 

Ah ! silly Bard, unfed, untended, 
His lamp but glimmered in its socket ; 
He lived unhonoured and unfriended 
With scarce a penny in his pocket ; — 
Nay — tho' he hid it from the many — 
With scarce a pocket for his penny ! 



*Epu)s det \aXr]dpos eralpos 

In many ways does the full heart reveal 
The presence of the love it would conceal ; 
But in far more th' estranged heart lets know 
The absence of the love, which yet it fain would 





Unchanged witliin to see all changed witliout. 

Is a l)lank lot and hard to bear, no doubt. 

Yet why at others' wanings shouldst thou fret ? 

Then only might'st thou feel a just regret, 

Hadst thou withheld thy love or hid thy light 

In selfish forethought of neglect and slight. 

O wiselier then, from feeble yearnings freed. 

\Vhilt\ and on whom, thou may'st — shine on I nor heed 

Whether the object by reflected light 

Return thy radiance or absorb it quite : 

And tho' thou notest from thy safe recess 

Old Friends burn dim. like lami)s in noisome air, 

Love them for what they iirc : nor love them less, 

Because to t/icc they arc not what thev were. 





'TwAS my last waking thought, how it could be 
That thou, sweet I-'riend, such anguish sliould'st endure 
Wliiii straight from Dreamland came a Dwarf, aiul he 
(\)uld ti'll the cause, forsooth, and knew the cure. 

Mi'thought he fronti'd me with peering look 
Fixed on my lu-art : and read aloud in game 
'rh(> loves and grit'fs then'in, as from a book : 
And uttcn'il praise like one who wished to blame. 


In every heart (quoth he) since Adam's sin 

Two Founts there are, of suffering and of cheer ! i" 

That to let forth, and this to keep within ! 

But she, whose aspect I find imaged here, 

Of pleasure only will to all dispense, 
That Fount alone unlock, by no distress 
Choked or turned inward ; but still issue thence 
Unconquered cheer, persistent loveliness. 

As on the driving cloud the shiny Bow, 

That gracious thing made up of tears and light, 

Mid the wild rack and rain that slants below 

Stands smiling forth, unmoved and freshly bright : -" 

As though the spirits of all lovely flowers, 
Inweaving each its wreath and dewy crown. 
Or ere they sank to earth in vernal showers. 
Had built a bridge to tempt the angels down. 

Ev'n so, Eliza ! on that face of thine. 

On that benignant face, whose look alone 

(The soul's translucence through her crystal shrine !) 

Has power to soothe all anguish but thine own, 

A Beauty hovers still, and ne'er takes wing, 

But with a silent charm compels the stern ^° 

And tort' ring Genius of the bitter spring 

To shrink aback, and cower upon his urn. 

Who then needs wonder, if (no outlet found 
In passion, spleen, or strife,) the fount of pain 
O'erflowing beats against its lovely mound, 
And in wild flashes shoots from heart to brain ? 

Sleep, and the Dwarf with that unsteady gleam 

On his raised lip, that aped a critic smile, 

Had passed : yet I, my sad" thoughts to beguile. 

Lay weaving on the tissue of my dream ; *" 


Till audibly at length I cried, as though 
Thou had'st indeed been present to my eyes, 

sweet, sweet sufferer ! if the case be so, 

1 pray thee, be less good, less sweet, less wise ! 

In every look a barbed arrow send, 
On those soft lips let scorn and anger live ! 
Do any thing, rather than thus, sweet Friend ! 
Hoard for th3self the pain, thou wilt not give ! 




No more 'twi.xt conscience staggering and the Pope 
Soon shall I now before my God appear, 
By him to be acquitted, as I hojie ; 
By him to be condemned, as I fear. — 


Lynx amid moles ! had I stood by thy bed. 
Be of good cheer, meek soul ! I woukl have said : 
I see a ho]ie sj)ring from that humble fear. 
All are not strong alike through storms to steer 
Ri.u'ht onwartl. \\'hat ? though dread of threatened death 
And dungeon tcnture made thy hanil and breath 
Inconstant to the truth within thy heart ? 
That truth, from which, through fear, thou twice didst j 
start. ^ ' 

Fear haply told thee, was a learned strife. 
Or not so vital as to claim thy lifr : 
And myriads had reached Heaxcn, who never . new 
Where ia\- the difterenee 'twixt the false and true I 


Yc, who secure 'mid trophies not your own, 
Judge him who won them when he stood alone, 
And proudly talk of recreant Berengare — • 
O tirst the age, and then the man compare ! 
That age how dark ! congenial minds how rare ! 
No host of friends with kindred zeal did burn ! 
No throbbing hearts awaited his return ! 
Prostrate alike when prince and peasant fell, 
He only disenchanted from the spell, 
Like the weak worm that gems the starless night, 
Moved in the scanty circlet of his light : 
And was it strange if he withdrew the ray 
That did but guide the night-birds to their prey ? 

The ascending Day-star with a bolder eye 
Hath lit each dew-drop on our trimmer lawn ! / 
Yet not for this, if wise, shall we decry • 

The spots and struggles of the timid Dawn ; ^ 
Lest so we tempt th' approaching Noon to scorn 
The mists and painted vapours of our Morn. 





Qu.t linquam, aut nihil, aut nihili, aut vix sunt mea,— 
Do Morti ; — reddo csetera, Christe ! tibi. 




Scene — A spacious drawing-room, with music-room 


Katharine. What arc the words ? 

Eliza. Ask our friend, the Improvisatore ; here he 
comes. Kate has a favour to ask of you, Sir ; it is that 
you will repeat the ballad that Mr. sang so sweetly. 

Friend. It is in Moore's Irish Melodies ; but I do not 
recollect the words distinctly. The moral of them, 
however, I take to be this : — 

Love would remain the same if true. 
When we wer>' neither youn!" nor new ; 
Yea. and in all within the will that came, 
Bv the same ])roo(s would show itself the same. 

Eliz. What arc tlie lines you repeated from Beau- 
mont and Fletcher, which my mother admired so much ? 
It Ix'gins with Sdmethini:^ about two vinos so close that 
their tenilrils intermingle. 

Fri. You mean Charles' speech to Angelina, in The 
Elder Brother. 

We'll live together, like two neighbour vines, 
Circling our souls and loves in one another ! 
We'll spring together, and we'll hear one fruit ; 
One joy shall make us smile, and one grief mourn : 
One age go with us, and one hour of death 
Shall close our eyes, and one grave make us hajipy. 

Kath. A ]irecious boon, that would go far to reconcile 
one to old age — this love — if true ! But is there any 
such true love ? 

Fri. I hope so. 

Kath. But do you believe it ? 

Eliz. (eagerly.) I am sure he does. 

Fri. From a man turned of fifty, Katharine, I im- 
agine, expects a less confident answer. 

Kath. A more sincere one, ]HMhaj)s. 

I'ri. VWcu though he shoukl have obtained the nick- 
name of Impiovisatore, by perpi-trating charades and 
e.\temi)oi"e verses at Christmas times ? 



Eliz. Nay, but be serious. 

Fri. Serious ! Doubtless. A grave personage of my 
years giving a love-lecture to two young ladies, cannot 
well be otherwise. The difficulty, I suspect, would be 
for them to remain so. It will be asked whether I 
am not the " elderly gentleman " who sate " despairing 
beside a clear stream," with a willow for his wig-block. 

Eliz. Say another word, and we will call it downright 

Kath. No ! we will be affronted, drop a courtesy, 
and ask pardon for our presumption in expecting that 

Mr. would waste his sense on two insignificant 


Fri. Well, well, I will be serious. Hem ! Now 
then commences the discourse ; Mr. Moore's song being 
the text. Love, as distinguished from Friendship, on 
the one hand, and from the passion that too often usurps 
its name, on the other — 

Lucius. {Eliza's brother, who had just joined the trio, in a 
whisper to the Friend.) But is not Love the union of 
both ? 

Fri. {aside to Lucius.) He never loved who thinks 

m SO. 

I Eliz. Brother, we don't want you. There ! Mrs. H. 

■ cannot arrange the flower vase without you. Thank 

■ you, Mrs. Hartman. 

^L Luc. I'll have my revenge ! I know what I will 


V Eliz. Off ! Off ! Now, dear Sir, — - Love, you were 

■ saying— 

H Fri. Hush ! Preaching, you mean, Eliza. 

P Eliz. {impatiently.) Pshaw ! 

Fri. Well then, I was saying that love, truly such, is 
itself not the most common thing in the world — and 
mutual love still less so. But that enduring personal 
attachment, so beautifully delineated by Erin's sweet 
melodist, and still more touchingly, perhaps, in the 
well-known ballad, " John Anderson, my Jo, John," 
in addition to a depth and constancy of character of no 
everyday occurrence, supposes a peculiar sensibility and 
tenderness of nature : a constitutional communicative- 


ncss and uttcranry of hrart and soul ; a (k-lit,'ht in the 
detail of sympathy, in tla- outward and visihk- signs of 
the sacrament within ; — to count, as it were, the pulses 
of the life of love. Hut above all, it supjM)scs a soul which, 
even in the pride and summer-title of life — even in the 
lustihood of health and strength, had felt oftenest and 
jiri/.ed highest that which age cannot take away, and 
whicli, in all our lovings. is (he Love ; 

I:/iz. There is something here (pointing to her heart) 
that seems to understand you, but wants the word that 
would make it understand itself. 

Kdth. I, too, seem to feel what you mean. Interpret 
the feeling for us. 

Fri. I mean that willing sense of the unsufficing- 

ness of the self for itself, which predisposes a generous 
nature to see. in the total being of another, the suj^ple- 
ment and completion of its own ; — that quiet perpetual 
seeking which the presence of the beloved object modu- 
lates, not susjicnds, where the heart momently finds, 
and, finding, again seeks on ; — lastly, when " life's 
changeful orb has pass'd the full," a confirmed faith in 
the nol)leness of humanity, thus brought home and 
pressed, as it were, to the very bosom of hourly experi- 
ence ; It .supjwses, I say, a heartfelt reverence for worth, 
not the less deep because divested of its solemnity by 
habit, by familiarity, by mutual infuniities. and even liy 
a feeling of modesty which will arise in delicate minds, 
when they are conscious of possessing the same or the 
correspondent excellence in their own characters. In 
short, there must be a mind, which, while it feels the 
beautiful and the excellent in the beloved as its own, and 
b\ right of love appropriates it. can call Goodness its 
pia\ fellow ; and dares make sjiort of Time and Inlirmity. 
while, in the person of a thousand-foKlly endeared 
partner, we feel for aged virtue the caressing fondness 
that belongs to the innocence of Childhood, ami repeat 
the same attentions and tender courtesies which had 
been dictated by the same affection to the same 
object when attired in feminine loveliness or in manly 

liliz. What a soothing — what an elevating thought ! 


Kath. If it l)e not only a mere fancy. 

Fri. At all events, these qualities which 1 have 
enumerated, are rarely found united in a single indivi- 
dual. How much more rare must it be, that two such 
individuals should meet together in this wide world 
under circumstances that admit of their union as 
Husband and Wife. A person may be highly estimable 
on the whole, nay, amiable as neighbour, friend, house- 
mate — in short, in all the concentric circles of attach- 
ment save only the last and inmost ; and yet from how 
many causes be estranged from the highest perfection 
in this ! Pride, coldness, or fastidiousness of nature, 
worldly cares, an anxious or ambitious disposition, a 
passion for display, a sullen temper, — one or the other 
— too often proves " the dead fly in the compost of 
spices," and any one is enough to unfit it for the precious 
balm of unction. For some mighty good sort of people, 
jtoo, there is not seldom a sort of solemn saturnine, or, if 
you will, ursine vanity, that keeps itself alive by sucking 
the paws of its own self-importance. And as this high 
[sense, or rather sensation of their own value is, for the 
[most part, grounded on negative qualities, so they have 
no better means of preserving the same but by negatives 
— that is, by not doing or saying anything, that might be 
put down for fond, silly, or nonsensical ; — or (to use their 
own phrase) by never forgetting themselves, which 
some of their acquaintance are uncharitable enough to 
think the most worthless object they could be employed 
, m remembering. 

Eliz. {in answer to a whisper from Katharine.) To a 
hair ! He must have sate for it himself. Save me from 
such folks ! But they are out of the question. 

Fri. True ! but the same effect is produced in thou- 
sands by the too general insensibility to a very import- 
ant truth ; this, namely, that the misery of human 
life is made up of large masses, each separated from the 
other by certain intervals. One year, the death of a 
child ; years after, a failure in trade ; after another 
j longer or shorter interval, a daughter may have married 
unhappily ;— in all but the singularly unfortunate, the 
integral parts that compose the sum total of the unhap- 


pincss of a man's life, are easily counted, and distinctly 
remembered. The happiness of life, on the contrary, 
is made u}) of minute fractions — the little, soon-forgotten 
charities of a kiss, a smile, a kind look, a heartfelt com- 
pliment in the disguise of playful raillery, and the count- 
less other infinitesimals of pleasurable thought and 
genial feeling. 

Kiith. Well, Sir ; you have said quite enough to 
make me despair of finding a " John Anderson, my 
Jo, John," with whom to totter down the hill of life. 

Fri. Not so ! Good men are not, I trust, so much 
scarcer than good women, but that what another would 
find in you, you may hope to find in another. But 
well, however, may that boon be rare, the possession of 
which would be more than an adetjuate reward for the 
rarest virtue. 

Iiliz. Surely, he, who has described it so well, must 
have possessed it ? 

/•>/'. If he were worthy to have possessed it, and had 
believingly anticipated and not foun<l it, how bitter the 
di.sappointmcnt ! (Then after a pause of a few minutes), 

Answkk, I'x im proviso 

Yi-;s, yes ! that boon. Life's richest treat 
He had, or fancied that he hail ; 
Say, 'twas but in his own conceit — 

The fancy made him glad ! 
Crown of his cup, and garnish ol his dish I 
The boon, jMcfigured in his earliest wish, 
The fair fulfilment of his poesy, 
Wlien his xoung heart fust Nvarned for svmpath\' I 
Hut e'lMi the meteor offspring of the brain 

I'nnourished wane ; 
I-'iiith asks her daily bread, 
And Fancy must be fed. 
Now .so it chanced — from wet or dry, 
It boots not how — I know not why — 
She missi'd her wontt^l food ; and quicklv 
I'oor Fancy staggered iuu\ grew sickly. 
Then came a restless state, 'twixt yea and nay, 


His faith was fixed, his heart all ebb and flow ; 
Or like a bark, in some half-sheltered bay, 
Above its anchor driving to and fro. 

That boon, which but to have possessed 
In a belief, gave life a zest — 
Uncertain both what it had been, 
And if by error lost, or luck ; 
And what it was : — an evergreen 
Which some insidious blight had struck, 
Or annual flower, which, past its blow, 
No vernal spell shall e'er revive ; 
Uncertain, and afraid to know. 

Doubts tossed him to and fro : 
Hope keeping Love, Love Hope alive. 
Like babes bewildered in the snow, 
That cling and huddle from the cold 
In hollow tree or ruined fold. 

Those sparkling colours, once his boast 

Fading, one by one away. 
Thin and hueless as a ghost, 

Poor Fancy on her sick bed lay ; 
111 at distance, worse when near, 
Telling her dreams to jealous Fear ! 
Where was it then, the sociable sprite 
[ That crowned the Poet's cup and decked his dish ! 
Poor shadow cast from an unsteady wish, 
^Itself a substance by no other right 

Jut that it intercepted Reason's light ; 
'It dimmed his eye, it darkened on his brow, 
J A peevish mood, a tedious time, I trow ! 

Thank Heaven ! 'tis not so now. 

!0 bliss of blissful hours ! 

[The boon of Heaven's decreeing, 

[While yet in Eden's bowers 

Dwelt the first husband and his sinless mate ! 

The one sweet plant, which, piteous Heaven agreeing, 
[They bore with them thro' Eden's closing gate ! 
[Of life's gay summer tide the sovran rose ! 


Late Aviluinn's amaranth, that more fragrant blows 
Wlion Passion's flowers all fall or fade ; 
If this were ever his, in outward being, 
Or but his own true love's projected shade. 
Now that at length by certain jiroof he knows, 
That whether real or a magic show, 
W'hate'er it icas, it is no longer so ; 
Though heart be lonesome, hope laid low, 
Yet, Lady ! deem him not unblcst : 
The certainty that struck Hope dead, 
Hath left Contentment in her stead : 
And that is next to best ! 



All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair — 

The bees arc stirring — birds are on the wing — 

And Winter slumbering in the open air. 

Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring I 

And I the while, the sole unbusy thing. 

Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing. 

Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow. 
Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow. 
Bloom, O ye amaranths ! bloom for whom ye may. 
For me ye bloom not ! Glitle, rich streams, away ! 
With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll : 
And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul } 
Work without Hojie draws nectar in a sieve. 
And Hoi)e without an object cannot live. 


Of late, in one of those most weary hours, 
When Hfe seems emptied of all genial powers, 
A dreary mood, which he who ne'er has known 
May bless his happy lot, I sate alone ; 
And, from the numbing spell to win relief. 
Called on the Past for thought of glee or grief. 
In vain ! bereft alike of grief and glee, 
I sate and cowered o'er my own vacancy ! 
And as I watched the dull continuous ache, 
Which, all else slumb'ring, seemed alone to wake ; 

Friend ! long wont to notice yet conceal, 
And soothe by silence what words cannot heal, 

1 but half saw that quiet hand of thine 
Place on my desk this exquisite design : — 
Boccaccio's Garden and its faery. 

The love, the joyaunce, and the gallantry ! 
An Idyll, with Boccaccio's spirit warm, 
Framed in the silent poesy of form. 




■ — STTT ':5J 












Like flocks adown a newly-bathed steep 

Emerging from a mist : or like a stream 
Of music soft that not dispels the sleep, 

But casts in ha}")pier moulds the shunberer's dream. 
Gazed by an idle eye with silent might 
The picture stole upon my inward sight 
A tremulous warmth crci)t gradual o'er my chest, 
As though an infant's finger touched my breast. 
And one by one (I know not whence) were brought 
All spirits of power that most had stirred my thought 
In selfless boyhood, on a new world tost 
Of wonder, and in its own fancies lost ; 
Or charmed my youth, that, kindled from above, 
Loved ere it loved, and sought a form for love ; 
Or lent a lustre to the earnest scan 
Of manhood, musing what and whence is man ! 
Wild strain of Scalds, that in the sea-worn caves 
Rehearsed their war-sju-U to the winds and waves ; 
Or fateful hynm of those ])rophetic maids. 
That called on Hertha in deep forest glades ; 
Or minstrel lay, that cheered the baron's feast ; 
Or rhyme of city jiomp, of monk and jMiest, 
Juilgi', mayor, and many a guild in long array. 
To higii-churoh pacing on the great saint's day. 
And many a verse which lo myself I sang. 
That woke the tear yet stole away the jning, 
Of hopes which in lamenting 1 renewed. 
And last, a matron now, of sober mien, 
^'t•t radiant still and with no carthh' sheen. 
Whom as a faiM \" child ni\ childhood wooed 







Even in my dawn of thought — Philosophy ; 

Though then unconscious of herself, pardie, 

She bore no other name than Poesy ; 

And, like a gift from heaven, in lifeful glee, 

That had but newly left a mother's knee, 

Prattled and played with bird and fiower, and stone, 

As if with elfin playfellows well known, 

And life revealed to innocence alone. 



Thanks, gentle artist ! * now I can descry 
Thy fair creation with a mastering eye, 
And all awake ! And now in fixed gaze stand, 
Now wander through the Eden of thy hand ; 
Praise the green arches, on the fountain clear 
See fragment shadows of the crossing deer ; 
And with that serviceable nymph I stoop 

* Stothard's picture of the Garden of Boccaccio, appeared in 
the Keepsake of 1829, as an ilhistration of the poem, but the poem 
seems to have been written to ilUistrate the picture. 



The crystal from its restless pool to scoop. 
I see no longer ! I myself am there, 
Sit on the ground-swanl. and the l:)anquet share. 
'Tis I, that sweep tliat lute's love-echoing strings, 
And gaze upon the maid who gazing sings ; 
Or pause and listen to the tinkling hells 
From the high tower, and think that there she dwells. 
With old Boccaccio's soul I stainl possessed, 
And breathe an air like life, that swells my chest. 
The brightness of the world. thou once free, 
And always fair, rare land of courtesy ! 
O Florence ! with the Tuscan fields and hills, 
Antl famous Arno fed with all their rills ; 
Thou brightest star of star-bright Ital\- ! 
Rich, ornate, jioj^ulous. all treasures tliine, 
The golden corn, the olive, and the \ine. 
Fair cities, gallant mansions, castles oKl, 
And forests, where beside his leafy hold 
Thr sullen boar hath heard the distant horn, 
.Vnd whets his tusks against the gnarled thorn ; 
Palladian jxilace with its storied halls ; 
iMiuntaius. where Love lies listening to their falls ; 
Gardens, where flings the bridge its airy span. 
And Nature makes her hapjiy home with man ; 
Where many a gorgeous Jlower is tlulv fed 
With its own rill, on its own spangled bed. 
And wreathes tlie marble urn. or leans its head, 
A iniinic mounici . that with \i'il withdrawn 
W< tps Ii(iuid gems, the presents of the dawn ; — 







\Ml'vininw '' f/n 





■ — -T 

g^^^^^=^^- ■•■ ■■.■.:-^-.— ^ 



Thine all delights, and every muse is thine ; 
And more than all, the embrace and intertwine 
Of all with all in gay and twinkling dance ! 
Mid gods of Greece and warriors of romance. 
See ! Boccace sits, unfolding on his knees 
The new-found roll of old Maeonides ; * 
But from his mantle's fold, and near the heart, 
Peers Ovid's Holy Book of Love's sweet smart ; f 
all-enjoying and all-blending sage, 
Long be it mine to con thy mazy page, 
Where, half concealed, the eye of fancy views 
Fauns, nymphs, and winged saints, all gracious to thy 
muse ! 


Still in thy garden let me watch their pranks, 
And see in Dian's vest between the ranks 

* Boccaccio claimed for himself the glory of having first in- 
troduced the works of Homer to his countrymen. 

t I know few more striking or more interesting proofs of the 
overwhelming influence which the study of the Greek and Roman 
classics exercised on the judgments, feelings, and imaginations 
of the literati of Europe at the commencement of the restoration 
of literature, than the passage in the Filocopo of Boccaccio : 
where the sage instructor, Racheo, as soon as thejiyoung prince 
and the beautiful girl Biancofiore had learned their letters, sets 
them to study the Holy Book, i Ovid's Art of Love. " Inco- 
mincio Racheo a mettere il suo officio in esecuzioncjcon intera 
soUecitudine. E loro, in breve tempo, insegnato a conoscer le 
lettere, fece leggere il santo libro d'Ovvidio, nel quale il sommo 
poeta mostra, come i santi fuochi di Venere si debbano nt' freddi 
cuori, accendere." 





Of the trim vines, some maid that half beheves 
The vcslal fires, of which her lover fjrieves, 
With that sly satyr jiccjiing through the leaves ! 



In Kohln, a town of monks and bones, 

And pavements fanged with murderous stones, 

And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches, 

I counted two and seventy stenches. 

All well defined, and several stinks ! 

Ye Nymphs that reign o'er sewers and sinks, 

The river Rhine, it is well known. 

Doth wash your city of Cologne ; 

But tell me, Nymphs ! what power divine 

Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine ? 




As I am rhymer, 
And now at least a merry one, 
Mr. Mum's Rudesheimer 
And the church of St. Geryon 
Are the two things alone 
That deserve to be known 
In the body-and-soul-stinking town of Cologne. 



In Spain, that land of Monks and Apes, 
The thing called Wine doth come from grapes, 
But on the noble River Rhine, 
The thing called Gripes doth come from Wine ! 



To praise men as good, and to take them for such, 
Is a grace which no soul can mete out to a tittle ; — 

Of wliich he wlio lias not a little too much. 

Will by Charity's gauge surel\- have much too little. 



Nr;7r<o< nice icraffiy orrut ~\tiiy r/fitav ttuptos 


What a spring-tide of Love to dear friends in a shoal 
Half of it to one were worth double the whole ! 


SONG, fx imfroviso 


'Tis not the lily-brow I prize, 

Nor roseate cheeks, nor sunny eyes, 

Enough of lilies anil of roses ! 
A thou.sand-fokl more dear to me 
The gentle look that Love discloses, — 

The look that Love alone can see ! 




Verse, pictures, music, thoughts both grave and gay, 
Remembrances of dear-loved friends away, 
On spotless page of virgin white displayed, 
Such should thine Album be, for such art thou, sweet 
maid ! 



O'er wayward childhood would'st thou hold firm rule, 
And sun thee in the light of happy faces ; 
Love, Hope, and Patience, these must be thy graces. 
And in thine own heart let them first keep school. 
For as old Atlas on his broad neck places 
Heaven's starry globe, and there sustains it ; — so 
Do these upbear the little world below 
Of Education, — Patience, Love, and Hope. 
Methinks, I see them grouped in seemly show, 
The straightened arms upraised, the palms aslope, 
And robes that touching as adown they flow. 
Distinctly blend, like snow embossed in snow. 

part them never ! If Hope prostrate lie. 

Love too will sink and die. 
But Love is subtle, and doth proof derive 
From her own life that Hope is yet alive ; 
And bending o'er, with soul-transfusing eyes. 
And the soft murmurs of the mother dove. 


422 LINES 

Wooes back the fleeting spirit, and halt supplies ; — 
Thus Love repays to Hope what Hope first gave to Love. 
Yet haply there will conic a weary clay, 

When overtasked at length 
Both Love and Hope beneath the load give way. 
Then with a statue's smile, a statue's strength. 
Stands the mute sister. Patience, nothing loth, 
And both sujiporting does the work of both. 






Child of my muse ! in Ba^'bour's gentle hand 

Go cross ihc main : thou seck'st no foreign land : 

'Tis not the clod beneath our feet we name 

Our country. Each heaven-sanctioned tie the same, 

Laws, manners, language, faith, ancestral blood, 

Domestic honom", awe of womanhood : — 

With kindling j^ride thou wilt rejoice to see 

Britain with elliow-room and doubly free ! 

Go seek thy countrymen ! and if one scar 

Still linger of that fratricidal war. 

Look to the maid who brings thee from afar ; 

Be thou the olive-leaf and she the dove. 

And tay I greet thee with a brother's love I 

S. T. Coleridge. 
I S29. 



Her attachment may differ from yours in degree, 

Provided they are both of one kind ; 
But Friendship how tender so ever it be 

Gives no accord to Love, however refined. 

Love, that meets not with Love, its true nature reveahng, 

Grows ashamed of itself, and demurs : 
If you cannot Hft hers up to your state of feehng. 

You must lower down your state to hers. 



That Jealousy may rule a mind 

Where Love could never be 
I know ; but ne'er expect to find 

Love without Jealousy. 

She has a strange cast in her ee, 
A swart sour-visaged maid — 

But yet Love's own twin-sister she 
His house-mate and his shade. 

Ask for her and she'll be denied : — 
What then ? they only mean 

Their mistress has lain down to sleep, 
And can't just then be seen. 





A LOVELY form there sate beside my bed, 
And such a feeding calm its presence shed, 
A tender love so pure from earthly leaven, 
That I unnethe the fancy might control, 
'Twas my own spirit newly come from heaven, 
Wooing its gentle way into my soul ! 
But ah ! the change — It had not stirred, and yet- 
Alas ! that change how fain would I forget ! 
That shrinking back, like one that had mistook I 
That weary, wandering, disavowing look ! 
'Twas all another — feature, look, and frame — 
And still, methought, I knew it was the same ! 


This riddling tale, to what does it belong ? 

Is't history ? vision ? or an idle song ? 

Or rather say at once, within what space 

Of time this wild disastrous change took j^lace ? 


Call it a moment's work (and such it seems) 
This tale's a fragment from the life of dreams ; 
Hut say, that years matured the silent strife, 
And 'tis a record from the dream of life. 




Though friendships differ endless in degree, 

The sorts, methinks, may be reduced to three. 

idcquaintance many, and Co;zquaintance few ; 

But for /^zquaintance I know only two — 

The friend I've mourned with, and the maid I woo ! 

My dear Gillman — The ground and materiel of this 
division of one's friends into ac, con and zwquaintance, 
was given by Hartley Coleridge when he was scarcely 
five years old [1801]. On some one asking him if Anny 
Sealy (a little girl he went to school with) was an ac- 
quaintance of his, he replied, very fervently pressing 
his right hand on his heart, " No, she is an mquaint- 
ance ! " " Well ! 'tis a father's tale " ; and the recol- 
lection soothes your old friend and ^^jquaintance, 

S. T. Coleridge. 


You come from o'er the waters, 
From famed Columbia's land, 

And you have sons and daughters. 
And money at command. 

But I live in an island. 
Great Britain is its name. 

With money none to buy land. 
The more it is the shame. 

But we are all the children 
Of one great God of Love, 

Whose mercy like a mill-drain 
Runs over from above. 



Lullaby, liillab}', 

Sugar-plums and cates, 

Close your little peeping eye, 
Bonny Baby B s. 



Now ! it is gone. Our brief hours travel post, 
Each with its thought or deed, its Why or How :- 

But know, each parting hour gives up a ghost 
To dwell within thee — an eternal Now ! 



Frail creatures are we all ! To be the best, 

Is iMit the fewest faults to have : — 
Look thou then to th)self, and leave the rest 

To God, thy conscience, and the grave. 



— E Ccclo dcsccndit yiZiHt a-iavroy. 

Juvenal, xi. J7. 

r»J)0« (TinvToy ! — and is this the prime 

And heaven-sprung adage of the olden time ! — 

Say, canst tliou make thyself ? — Learn lust that trade ; — 

Haply thou know what thyselt had niadt". 


What hast thou, Man, that thou dar'st call thine own ? — 

What is there in thee, Man, that can be known ? — 

Dark fluxion, all unfixable by thought, 

A phantom dim of past and future wrought, 

Vain sister of the worm, — Life, Death, Soul, Clod — 

Ignore thyself, and strive to know thy God ! 



Beareth all things. — 2 Cor. xiii. 7. 

" Gently I took that which ungently came," * 

And without scorn forgave : — Do thou the same. 

A wrong done to thee think a cat's-eye spark 

Thou wouldst not see, were not thine own heart dark. 

Thine own keen sense of wrong that thirsts for sin, 

Fear that — the spark self-kindled from within, 

Which blown upon will blind thee with its glare, 

Or smothered stifle thee with noisome air. 

Clap on the extinguisher, pull up the blinds, 

And soon the ventilated spirit finds 

Its natural daylight. If a foe have kenned. 

Or worse than foe, an alienated friend, 

A rib of dry rot in thy ship's stout side. 

Think it God's message, and in humble pride 

With heart of oak replace it ; — thine the gains — 

Give him the rotten timber for his pains ! 


'•' Spenser's Shepherd's Calendar, February 3 Stanza 3. 


Like a lone Arab, old ami blind, 
Some caravan had left bcliind. 
Who sits beside a ruinetl well. 
Where the shy sand-asps bask and swell ; 
And now he hangs his aged head aslant. 
And listens lor a hnnian sonnd — in vain ! 
And now the aid, which Heaven ak)ne can grant, 
Upturns his eyeless face from Heaven to gain ; — 
Even thus, in vacant mood, one sultry hour. 
Resting my eye upon a drooping plant. 
With brow low-bent, within my garden-bower, 
I sate uj)on the couch of camomile ; 
And — whether 'twas a transient slecj), j)erchancc, 



Flitted across the idle brain, the while 
I watched the sickly calm with aimless scope, 
In my own heart ; or that, indeed, a trance 
Turned my eye inward — thee, O genial Hope, 
Love's elder sister ! thee did I behold. 
Dressed as a bridesmaid, but all pale and cold, 
With roseless cheek, all pale and cold and dim. 

Lie lifeless at my feet ! 
And then came Love, a sylph in bridal trim, 

And stood beside my seat ; 
She bent, and kissed her sister's lips, 

As she was wont to do ; — 
Alas ! 'twas but a chilling breath 
Woke just enough of life in death 

To make Hope die anew. 


In vain we supplicate the Powers above ; 
There is no resurrection for the Love 
That, nursed in tenderest care, yet fades away 
In the chilled heart by gradual self -decay. 



Lady. If Love be dead — 

Poet. And I aver it ! 

Lady. Tell me. Bard ! where Love lies buried ? 

Poet. Love lies buried where 'twas born : 
Oh, gentle dame ! think it no scorn 
If, in my fancy, I presume 
To call thy bosom poor Love's Tomb, 
And on that tomb to read the line : — " 

" Here lies a Love that once seemed mine, 
But took a chill, as I divine, 
And died at length of a Decline." 




Kayser ! to whom, as to a second self, 
Nature, or Nature's next-of-kin, the Elf, 
Hight Genius, hath dispensed the happy skill 
To cheer or soothe the })arting friend's " Alas I " 
Turning the blank scroll to a magic glass, 
That makes the absent jiresent at our will ; 
And to the shadowing of thy pencil gives 
Such seeming substance, that it almost lives. 

Well hast thou given tlie thoughtful Poet's face ! 

Yet hast thou on the tablet of his mind 

A more delightful portrait left behind — 

Even thy own youthful beauty, and artless grace. 

Thy natural gladness and eyes bright with glee ! 

Kayser ! farewell ! 
Be wise ! be happy ! and forget not me. 



God's child in Christ adopted, — Christ my all, — 

What that I-larth Itoasts were not lost cheajMy, rather 

Than forfeit that blest name, by which I call 

The Holy One, the Almighty God, my Father ? — 

P'ather I in Christ we live, and Christ in Thee — 

Internal Thou, and e\erlasting we. 

Tlie heir of Heaven, henceforth 1 fear not Death : 

In Christ I live ! in Christ I draw the breath 

Of tJK' true life ! — Let tlien Earth, Sea, and Sky 

Maki" war against me ! On my front I show 

Their niiglity Master's .seal, in vain they try 

To en<l my life, that can but i-nd its woe. — 

Is that a death-bed wlu>re a Christian lies ? — 

Yes ! but not his 'tis Death itself there dies.%' 

• 833. 


Stop, Christian passer-by ! — Stop, child of God, 
And read with gentle breast. Beneath this sod 
A Poet lies, or that which once seemed he. — 
O, lift one thought in prayer for S. T. C. ; 
That he who many a year with toil of breath 
Found Death in Life, may here find Life in Death ! 
Mercy for Praise — to be forgiven for Fame 
He ask'd. and hoped, through Christ. ■ 

Do thou the same ! / 






Though Miss 's match is a subject of mirth, 

She consider' d the matter full well, 

And wisely preferr'd leading one ape on earth 
To perhaps a whole dozen in hell. 




From Rufa's eye sly Cupid shot his dart. 
And left it sticking in Sangrado's heart. 
No quiet from that moment has he known, 
And peaceful sleep has from his eyelids flown ; 
And Opium's force, and what is more, alack ! 
His own orations cannot bring it back. 
In short, unless she pities his afflictions. 
Despair will make him take his own prescriptions. 



Of smart pretty fellows in Bristol are numbers, some 
Who so modish are grown, that they think plain sense 

cumbersome ; 
And lest they should seem to be queer or ridiculous, i 
They affect to believe neither God or old Nicholas ! 


, 435 



Said William to Edmund I can't guess the reason 
Why Spencers abound in this bleak wintry season. 
Quoth Edmund to William, I perceive you're no Solon — 
Men may purchase a half-coat when they cannot a whole 



TO T. POOLE. — Repeating 

Such verse as Bowles, heart-honoured Poet sang, 

That wakes the Tear, yet steals away the Pang, 

Then, or with Berkeley, or with Hobbes romance it. 

Dissecting Truth with metaphysic lancet. 

Or, drawn from up these dark unfathom'd wells, 

In wiser folly chink the Cap and Bells. 

How many tales we told ! What jokes we made. 

Conundrum, Crambo, Rebus, or Charade ; 

/Enigmas that had driven the Theban mad. 

And Puns, these best when exquisitely bad ; 

And I, if aught of Archer vein I hit 

With my own laughter stifled my own wit. 



By many a booby's vengeance bit, 
I leave your haunts, ye sons of ^vit ! 
And swear by Heaven's blesst^d light 
That Epigrams no more I'll write. 
Now hang that **♦ ** for an ass 
Thus to thrust in his idiot face, 
Wliich, spite of oaths, if e'er I spy, 
1 write an Epigram — or die ! 







O ! — — ! of you we complain ; 

For exposing those ears to the wind and the rain — 
Thy face, a huge whitlow just come to a head, 
111 agrees with those ears so raw and so red. 

A Musical Critic of old fell a-pouting, 

When he saw, how his asinine honours were sprouting ; 

But he hid 'em quite snug, in a full fuzz of hair, 

And the Barber alone smoked his donkey's [ears] rare. 

Thy judgment much worse, and thy perkers as ample, 
O give heed to King Midas, and take his example. 
Thus to publish your fate is as useless as wrong — 
You but prove by your ears what we guess' d from your 



Grant me a patron, gracious Heaven ! whene'er 
My unwash'd follies call for penance drear : 
But when more hideous guilt this heart infests 

Instead of fiery coals upon my pate, 

O let a tiiled patron be my fate ; — 
That fierce compendium of .^igyptian pests ! 
Right Reverend Dean, right honourable Squire, 
Lord, Marquis, Earl, Duke, Prince, — or if aught higher, 
However proudly nicknamed, he shall be 
Anathema Maranatha to me ! 






We both attended the same College, 

Where sheets of paper we did l)]ur nianv. 

And now we're going to sport our knowledge, 
In England I, and you in Germany. 



HiPPOXA lets no silly flush 

Disturb her cheek, nought makes her blush. 

Whatc'cr obscenities you say, 

She nods and titters frank and gay. 

Oh Shame, awake one honest flush 

For this, — that nothing makes her blush. 

1 799. 



Thy babes ne'er greet thee with the father's name ; 

" My Lud ! " they lisp. Now whence can this arise ? 
Perhaps their mother feels an honest shame 

And will not teach her infant to tell lies. 




Ho.'VRSE Mievius reads his hobbling verse 

To all and at all times. 
And deems them both divinely smooth, 

His voice as well as rhymes. 

Rut folks say, M;evius is no ass ! 

Hut M.Lvius makes it clear 
That he's a monster of an ass, 

An ass without an car. 




Last Monday all the papers said 
That Mr. • was dead ; 

Why, then, what said the city ? 
The tenth part sadly shook their head. 
And shaking sigh'd and sighing said, 

" Pity, indeed, 'tis pity !" 

But when the said report was found 
A rumour wholly without ground. 

Why, then, what said the city ? 
The other nine parts shook their head, 
Repeating what the tenth had said, 

" Pity, indeed, 'tis pity !" 


Jem writes his verses with more speed 
Than the printer's boy can set 'em ; 
Quite as fast as we can read, 
And only not so fast as we forget 'em. 


Jack drinks fine wines, wears modish clothing, 
But prithee where lies Jack's estate ? 
In Algebra, for there I found of late 
A quantity call'd less than nothing. 



If the guilt of all lying consists in deceit 
Lie on — 'tis your duty, sweet youth 

For believe me, then only we find you a cheat 
When you cunningly tell us the truth. 



There comes from old Avaro's grave 
A deadly stench — why, sure they have 
Immured his soul within his grave ? 





Speak out, Sir ! you're safe, for so ruddy your nose, 
That, talk where you will, 'tis all under the Rose! 



As Dick and I at Charing Cross were walking. 
Whom should we see on t'other side pass by 

But Informator with a stranger talking, 
So I exclaimed, " Lord, what a lie ! " 

Quoth Dick — " What, can you hear him ? " 
" Hear him ! stuff ! 

I saw him oi)en his mouth — an't that enough ? " 

1 799- 


Thy lap-dog, Rufa, is a dainty beast. 
It don't surj)rise me in the least 
To see thee lick so dainty clean a beast, 
l^ut that so dainty clean a beast licks thee, 
Yes — that surprises me. 




Swans sing before they die —'twere no bad thing 
Should certain persons die before they sing. 




A JOKE (cries Jack) without a sting — 

Post ohituni can no man sing. 

And true, if Jack don't mend his manners 

And quit the atheistic banners, 

Post ohitum will Jack run foul 

Of such folks as can only howl. 




On his Carmen Sectdare (a title which has by 
various persons who have heard it, been thus trans- 
lated, " A Poem an age long.") 

Your poem must eternal be, 

Eternal ! it can't fail, 
For 'tis incomprehensible. 

And without head or tail ! 



WOULD the Baptist come again 

And preach aloud with might and main 
Repentance to our viperous race ! 
But should this miracle take place, 

1 hope, ere Irish ground he treads. 
He'll lay in a good stock of heads ! 




I HOLD of all our viperous race 

The greedy creeping things in place 

Most vile, most venomous ; and then 

The United Irishmen ! 

To come on earth should John determine, 

Imprimis, we'll excuse his sermon. 


Without a word the good old Dervis 
Might work incalculable service, 
At once from tyranny and riot 
Save laws, lives, liberties and moneys, 
If sticking to his ancient diet 
He'd but eat up our locusts and wild honeys ! 






Ye drinkers of Stingo and Nappy so free. 
Are the Gods on Olympus so happy as we ? 


They cannot be so happy ! 

For why ? they drink no Nappy. 


But what if Nectar, in their lingo, 
Is but another name for Stingo ? 


Why. then we and the Gods are equally blest. 
And Olympus an Ale-house as good as the best ! 





Of him that in this gorgeous tomb doth lie 
This sad brief tale is all that Truth can give — 

He lived like one who never thought to die. 
He died like one who dared not hope to live ! 




Under this stone does [Walter HarcourtJ lie, 

Who valued nought that God or man could give ; 

He lived as if he never thought to die ; 
He died as if he dared not hope to live ! 





My Merry men all, that drink with glee 
This fanciful Philosophy — 

Pray tell me what good is it ? 
n antient Nick should come and take 
The same across the Stygian Lake, 

1 guess we ne'er should miss it. 

Away, each pale, self-brooding spark 
That goes truth-hunting in the dark. 

Away from our carousing ! 
To Pallas we resign such fowls — 
Grave birds of wisdom ! ye' re but owls, 

And all your trade but mousing ! 

My Merry men all, here's punch and wine. 
And spicy bishop, drink divine ! 

Let's live while we are able. 
While Mirth and Sense sit, hand in glove. 
This Don Philosophy we'll shove 

Dead drunk beneath the table ! 




Vix ea nostra voco 

Lunatic Witch-fires ! Ghosts of Light and Motion ! 
Fearless I see you weave your wanton dances 
Near me, far off nic ; you, that tempt the traveller 

Onward and onward. 
Wooing, retreating, till the swamp beneath him 
Groans — and 'tis dark ! — This woman's wile — I know it ! 
Learnt it from ilicc, from thy perfidious glances ! 

Black-ey'd Rebecca ! 






Three truths should make thee often think and pause ; 

The first is, that thou govern'st over men ; 
The second, that thy power is from the laws ; 

And this the third, that thou nuist die ! — and then ? — 



Do call, dear Jess, whene'er my way you come ; 
My looking-glass will always be at home. 










Most candid critic, what if I, 

By way of joke, pull out your eye, 

And holding up the fragment, cry, 

" Ha ! ha ! that men such fools should be ! 

Behold this shapeless Dab ! — and he 

Who own'd it, fancied it could see /" 

The joke were mighty analytic, 

But should you like it, candid critic ? 



Pass under Jack's window at twelve at night, 

You'll hear him still — he's roaring ! 
Pass under Jack's window at twelve at noon, 

You'll hear him still — he's snoring ! 



Friends should be weigh'd, not told ; who boasts to 

have won 
A multitude of friends, he ne'er had one. 



To wed a fool, I really cannot see 
Why thou, Eliza, art so very loth : 
Still on a par with other pairs you'd be, 
Since thou hast wit and sense enough for both. 





'Tis mine, and it is likewise yours ; 

But if this will not do, 
Let it be mine, because that I 

Am the poorer of the two. 



What is an Epigram ? a dwarfish whole, 
Its body brevity, and wit its soul. 


Charles, grave or merry, at no lie would stick. 
And taught at length his memory the same trick. 

Believing thus what he so oft repeats 
He's lirought tlie thing to such a pass, poor youth. 

That now himself and no one else he cheats, 
Save when unluckily he tells the truth. 



An evil spirit's on thee, friend ! of late ! 
Ev'n from the hour thou cam'st to thy Estate. 
Thy mirth all gone, thy kindness, thy discretion, 
Th' Estate hath i)roved to thee a most complete posses- 
Shame, shame, old friend ! would'st thou be truly blest, 
Be thy wealth's Lord, not slave! possessor, not possessed. 


Hi:kf, lies the Drvil — ask no othiM' name. 

\\\']\ — but you mean Lord ? Hush! we mean the same. 





Two things hast thou made known to half the nation, 
My secrets and my want of penetration : 
For O ! far more than all which thou hast penn'd 
It shames me to have call'd a wretch, like thee, my 
friend ! 



.;. ^ " Obscnri sub luce maligna." — Virg. 

Scarce any scandal, but has a handle : 

In truth most falsehoods have their rise ; 
Truth first unlocks Pandora's box. 
And out there fly a host of lies. 
Malignant light, by cloudy night. 
To precipices it decoys one ! 
' One nectar-drop from Jove's own shop 

-. Will flavour a whole cup of poison. 


Old Harpy jeers at castles in the air, 

And thanks his stars, whenever Edmund speaks, 
That such a dupe as that is not his heir — 

But know, old Harpy ! that these fancy freaks, 
Tr.ough vain and light, as floating gossamer, 
Always amuse, and sometimes mend the heart : 

A young man's idlest hopes are still his pleasures, 
And fetch a higher price in Wisdom's mart 

Than all the unen joying Miser's treasures. 





Didst thou think less of thy dear self 

Far more would others think of thee ! 
Sweet Anne ! the knowledge of thy wealth 

Reduces thee to poverty. 
Boon Nature gave wit, beauty, health, 

On thee as on her darling pitching ; 
Couldst thou forget thou'rt thus enriched 

That moment would'st thou become rich in ! 
And wert thou not so self-bewitched. 

Sweet Anne ! thou wert, indeed, bewitching. 



From me, Aurelia ! you desired 
Your proper praise to know ; 

Well ! you're the Fair by all admired — 
Some twenty years ago. 



When thieves come, I bark : when gallants. I am 

So perform both my master's and mistress's will. 



la vain I praise thee, Zoilus ! 

In vain tiiou rail'st at me ! 
Me no one crcilits, Zoilus ! 

And no one credits thee ! 






A POOR benighted Pedlar knock'd 

One night at Sell- all's door, 
The same who saved old Sell- all's life — 

'Twas but the year before ! 
And Sell- ALL rose and let him in, 

Not utterly unwilling, 
But first he bargained with the man, 

And took his only shilling ! 
That night he dreamt he'd given away his pelf. 
Walked in his sleep, and sleeping hung himself ! 
And now his soul and body rest below ; 

And here they say his punishment and fate is 
To lie awake and every hour to know 

How many people read his tombstone gratis. 




Author. Come ; your opinion of my manuscript ! 

Friend. Dear Joe ! I would almost as soon be whipt. 

Author. But I will have it ! 

Friend. If it must be had — {hesitating) 

You write so ill, I scarce could read the hand — 

Author. A mere evasion ! 

Friend. And you spell so bad. 

That what I read I could not understand. 


Mccpocro^la, OR WISDOM IN FOLLY 

Tom Slothful talks, as slothful Tom beseems. 
What he shall shortly gain and what be doing, 

Then drops asleep and so prolongs his dreams, 

And thus enjoys at once what half the world are 



2 F 



Each Bond-street buck conceits, unhappy elf ! 
He shews his clothes ! Alas ! he shews himself. 
O that they knew, these overdrest self-lovers, 
What hides the body oft the mind discovers. 




That France has put us oft to rout 

With powder, which ourselves found out ; 

And laughs at us for fools in print 

Of whicli our genius was the mint ; 

All this I easily admit. 

For we have genius, France has wit. 

But 'tis too bad, that blind and mad 

To Frenchmen's wives each travelling German goes, 

Expends his manly vigour by their sides, 
Becomes the father of his country's foes 

And turns their warriors oft to parricides. 

180 J. 



Our English poets, bad and good, agree 

To make the Sun a male, the Moon a she. 

He drives his dazzling diligence on high. 

In verse, as constantly as in the sky ; 

And cheap as blackberries our sonnets shew 

The Moon. Heaven's huntress with her silver bow ; 

Hv which they'd teach us, if I guess aright. 

Man rules the day. and woman rules the night. 

In Germany tliey just reverse the thing ; 

Thr Sun becomes ;i (]ucon, the Moon a king. 

Now, that tlie Sun shouKl rei)resi'nl tlie women, 

The Moon the men, to mc seemed mighty humming ; 


And when I first read German, made me stare. 
Surely it is not that the wives are there 
As common as the Sun to lord and loon, 
And all their husbands horned as the Moon. 



My father confessor is strict and holy. 

Mi Fill, still he cries, peccare noli. 

And yet how oft I find the pious man. 

At Annette's door, the lovely courtesan ! 

Her soul's deformity the good man wins 

And not her charms ! he comes to hear her sins ! 

Good father ! I would fain not do thee wrong ; 

But ah ! I fear that they who oft and long 

Stand gazing at the sun, to count each spot, 

Must sometimes find the sun itself too hot. 

r 1802. 


When Surface talks of other people's worth 
He has the weakest memory on earth ! 

And when his own good deeds he deigns to mention. 
His memory still is no whit better grown ; 
But then he makes up for it, all will own, 

By a prodigious talent of invention. 

57 ^'°" " 



Good Candle, thou that with thy brother, Fire, 

Art my best friend and comforter at night, 
Just snuff' d, thou look'st as if thou didst desire 

That I on thee an epigram should write. 
Dear Candle, burnt down to a finger-joint, 

Thy own flame is an epigram of sight ; 

'Tis short, and pointed, and all over light, 
Yet gives most light and burns the keenest at the point, 

Valete et Plaudile. 

1 802.. 




Here sleeps at length poor Col., and without scream- 
Who died as he had always lived, a-dreaniing ! 
Shot dead, while sleeping, by the gout within — 
Alone and all unknown, at Embro' in an Inn. 


An excellent adage commands that we should 
Relate of the dead that alone which is good _: 
But of the great Lord who here lies in lead 
We know nothing good but that he is dead. 





We ask and urge — (here entls the story I) 
All Christian Papishcs to jiray 
That the unhappy Conjurer may. 
Instead of Hell, be jnit in Purgatory, — 

For there, there's hope ; — 

Long live the Pope ! 




O THINK, fair Maid ! these sands that jus? 
In slender threads adown this glass, 
Were once the body of some swain, 
Who lov'd too well, and lov'd in vain. 
And let one .soft sigh heave thy breast, 
That not in life alone unblest 
E'en lovers' ashes luid no rest. 

181 1. 



So great the charms of Mrs. Monday, 
That men grew rude, a kiss to gain : 

This so provok'd the dame that one day 
To Pallas chaste she did complain : 

Nor vainly she addressed her prayer. 
Nor vainly to that power applied ; 

The goddess bade a length of hair 
In deep recess her muzzle hide : 

Still persevere ! to love be callous ! 

For I have your petition heard ! 
To snatch a kiss were vain (cried Pallas) 

Unless you first should shave your beard. 




No mortal spirit yet had clomb so high 
As Kepler — yet his Country saw him die 
For very want ! the Minds alone he fed. 
And so the Bodies left him without bread. 


Written on a fly-leaf of a copy of Field on the Church, folio, 
1628, under the name of a former possessor of the volume in- 
scribed thus : " Hannah Scollock, her book, February 10, 1787." 

This, Hannah Scollock ! may have been the case ; 

Your writing therefore I will not erase. 

But now this book, once yours, belongs to me, 

The Morning Post's and Courier's S. T. C. ; — 

Elsewhere in College, knowledge, wit and scholarage 

To friends and public known as S. T. Coleridge. 

Witness hereto my hand, on Ashly Green, 

One thousand, twice four hundred, and fourteen 

Year of our Lord — and of the month November 

The fifteenth day, if right I do remember. 

1 8 14. 



Jack finding gold left a rope on the ground ; 

Hill missing his gold used the rope which he found. 



CLAMATION DAY " — June 29, 1S14 

We've foutjht for Peace, and conquer'd it at last, 
The rav'ning vulture's leg seems fetter'd fast ! 
Britons, rejoice ! and yet be wary too : 
The chain niay break, the dipt wing sprout anew. 

We've conquer'd us a Peace, like lads true metalled ; 
And l)ankrupt Nap's accomjits seem all now settled. 




No private grudge they need, no personal sjMtc, 
The viva scciio is their delight ! 
All enmity, all envy, they disclaim. 
Disinterested thieves of our good name : 
C"()ol, sober murderers of their neighbours' fame ! 




Parry seeks the Polar ridge, 
Rhymes seeks S. T. Coleridge, 
Author of Works, whereof — -tho' not in Dutch — 
The public little knows — the publisher too much. 




Jack Stripe 
Eats tripe. 

It is therefore ^credible 
That tripe is edible. -^ 
And therefore perforce 
It follows of course 
That the devil will gripe 
All who do not eat tripe. 

And as Nick is too slow 
To fetch 'em below. 
And G'lfford the attorney 
Won't quicken the journey ; 
The Bridge-Street Committee 
That colleague without pity 
To imprison and hang 
Carlile and his gang. 
Is the pride of the city : 
And 'tis association 
That alone saves the nation 
From death and damnation. 




Here's Jem's first copy of nonsense verses, 
All in the antique style of Mistress Sappho, 
Latin just like Horace the tuneful Roman, 
Sapph's imitator : 

But we Bards, we classical Lyric Poets, 
Know a thing or two in a scurvy Planet : 
Don't we, now ? Eh ? Brother Horatius Flaccus, 
Tip us your paw, Lad : — 

Here's to M.-eccnas and the other worthies ; 
Rich men of England ! would ye be immortal > 
Patronise Genius, giving Cash and Praise to 
Gillman Jacobus ; 

Gillman Jacobus, he of Merchant Taylors', 
Minor aetate, ingenio at stupendus, 
Sapphic, Heroic. Elegiac, — what a 
Versificator ! 




The rose that blushes like the morn. 

Bedecks the valleys low ; 
And so dost thou, sweet infant corn, 

My Angelina's toe. 

But on the rose their grows a tiiorn 
That breeds disastrous woe ; 

And so dost thou, remorseless corn. 
On Angelina's toe. 




" A HEAVY wit shall Hang at every lord," 
So sung Dan Pope ; but, 'pon my word, 

He was a story-teller ; 
Or else the times have altered quite, 
For wits, or heavy now, or light, 

Hang each by a bookseller. 



This way or that, ye Powers above me ! 

I of my grief were rid — 
Did Enna either really love me. 

Or cease to think she did. 



" The angel's like a flea, 

The devil is a bore ; " 

No matter for that, quoth S.T.C., 

I love him the better therefore. 



[" Written in pencil on the blank leaf of a book of lectures 
delivered at the London University, in which the Hartleyan 
<loctrine of association was assumed as a true basis." — Fraser's 
Magazine, Jan. 1835, Art. " Coleridgeiana," p. 54.] 

I. — By Likeness 

Fond, peevish, wedded pair ! why all this rant ? 

O guard your tempers ! hedge your tongues about ! 
This empty head should warn you on that point — 

The teeth were quarrelsome, and so fell out. 

S. T. C 


2. — Associulion by Contrast 

Phidias changed marble into feet and legs. 
Disease ! vile anti-Phidias ! thou, i' fegs ! 
Hast turned my livi> liml)S into marble pegs. 

3. — Association by Time 


T TOUCH this srar ujion my skull behind, 

And instantly there rises in my mind 

Napoleon's mighty hosts from Moscow lost. 

Driven forth to perish in the fangs of Frost. 

For in that self-same month, and self-same day, 

Down Skinner Street I took my ha-sty way — 

Mischief and Frost had set the boys at play ; 

I stept upon a slide — oh ! treacherous tread ! — 

Fell smash with bottom bruised, and brake my head I 

Thus Time's co-presence links the great and small, 

Napoleon's overthrow, and Snipkin's fall. 



Or a premonition promulgated gratis for the use of the Useful 
Classes, specially those resident in St. Giles's, Satlron Hill, Bethnal 
Green, &c. ; and likewise, inasmuch as the good man is merciful 
even to the beasts, for the benefit of the Bulls and Hears of the 
Stock Exchange. 

Pains ventral, subventral. 

In stomach or entrail. 

Think no longer more prefaces 

For grins, groans, and wry faces ; 
But off to the doctor, fast as ye can crawl ! — 
Yet far better 'twould be not to have them at all. 

Now to 'scape inward aches, 
Eat no plums nor plum-cakes ; 
Crv avaunt ! new jiotatoo — 
And don't drink, like old Cato. 



Ah ! beware of Dispipsy, 

And don't ye get tipsy ! 

For tho' gin and whiskey 

May make you feel frisky, 

They're but crimps to Dispipsy ; 

And nose to tail, with this gipsy 

Comes, black as a porpus, 

The diabolus ipse, 

Called Cholery Morpus ; 
Who with horns, hoofs, and tail, croaks for carrion to feed 

Tho' being a Devil, no one never has seed him ! 

Ah ! then my dear honies, 
There's no cure for you 
For loves nor for monies : — 
You'll find it too true. 
Och ! the hallabaloo ! 
Och ! och ! how you'll wail, 
When the offal-fed vagrant 
Shall turn you as blue 
As the gas-light unfragrant, 
That gushes in jets from beneath his own tail ; — 
'Till swift as the mail, 
He at last brings the cramps on. 
That will twist you like Samson. 

So without further blethring, 

Dear mudlarks ! my brethren ! 

Of all scents and degrees, 

(Yourselves and your shes) 

Forswear all cabal, lads, 

Wakes, unions, and rows. 

Hot dreams, and cold salads, 
And don t pig in styes that would suffocate sows ! 
Quit Cobbett's, O'Connell's and Beelzebub's banners, 
And whitewash at once bowels, rooms, hands, and 

manners ! 

Jidy 26, 1832. 




Little Miss Fanny, 
So cubic and canny, 
With blue eyes antl liluc shoes — 
The Queen of the Blues ! 
As darliuf^ a fjirl as there is in the world — 
If she'll lauj^h, skip, and jump, 
And not be Miss Giunij) I 





Absence : a farewell Ode, 32 

Ad Lyram, Tmitation of Casimir, 52 

Album, Written m an, 455 

Alcseus to Sappho, 301 

Ale, Song in Praise of, 442 

Alice du Clos, 389 

Alternative, The, 457 

Always Audible, 441. 

Amorous Doctor, On an, 435 

Ancient Mariner, The Rime of the, 1 69 

Anna and Henry, 12 

Answer to a Child's Question, 340 

Anthem for the Children of Christ's Hospital, 3 

Apologia pro Vita Sua, 313 

Association of Ideas, 457 

Author and his Friend, A Dialogue between an, 449 

Authors and Publishers, 457 

Autumnal Evening, Lines on an, 46 

Autumnal Moon. Sonnet to the, 2 

Baby Bates, To, 425 _ ^n 

Ballad of the Dark Ladic, The,,*j6 i.->*^ 

Baptismal Birthday, On my, 430 

Barbour. Lines to Miss, 432 

Bastile, Destruction of the, 7 

Berengarius, Lines suggested by the last Words of, 404 

Betham, To Matilda, 337 

Birth of a Son, Sonnet on receiving News of, 114 

Blossom, On observing a, 105 

Blossoming of the solitary Date-Tree, The, 347 

Bowles. Sonnet to the Rev. W. L., 70 

Bridge Street Committee, The, 455 

Bristol Wits, 435 

British Stripling's War-Song, The, 277 

Brockley Coomb, Lines composed while climbing, go 

Brunton, To Miss, 60 

Burke, Sonnet to, 69 

Candle, To my, 451 
Cataract, On a, 27S 




Catullian Hcndcc.osyllables, 291 
Character, A. 399 
Charity in Thought, 420 
Charity the Daughter of Humility, 427 
Child, To a, 460 
Child's Evening Prayer, A, 360 
Cholera cured Beforehand, 458 
Choral Song, from Znpolya, 373 
Christabel, 233 

Christening of a Friend's Child, On the, 140 
Christmas Carol, A, 305 
Coleridge, To the Rev. George, 142 
Cologne. 419 

Comic Author, Lines to a, 395 
Concert- Room, Lines composed in a, 296 
Connubial Rupture, On a late, 117 
Constancy to an ideal Object, i^ 5 
Cottle, To Joseph, 95 
Critic, To a, 445 

Curious Circumstance. On the, that in the German I-anguagc 
the Sun is Feminine and the Moon Masculine, 450 

Dark Ladik. Introduction to the Tale of the, 229 

Dark F^idie. The Ballad of the, 230 

Dark Side of Nature, The, 374 

Date-Tree, The Blossoming of the. 173 

Day-Dream, A. 341 

Day-Dream. The : From an Emigrant to his abs«'nt Wife. 287 

De Mortuis nil nisi Bonum, 439 

Dejection : an Ode, 322 

Departing Year. Ode to the, 133 

Deputy , on, 436 

Desire! 38S 

Destiny of Nations. The, 118 

Devil's Thoughts. The. 292 

Devonshire Roads, 14 

Discovery made too Late, On a, 61 

Distich, 454 

Domestic Peace, 57 

Donne's Poetry, On. 380 

Drinking versus Thinking, 443 

Duchess of Devonshire, Ode to, 302 

Dungeon, The, 1 50 

Duty surviving Self-Love, 402 

Egoenkaipan (Fichtean Egoismus). 376 

Elbingercwle. Lines written at. 28f> 

Elegiac Metre described and exemplilietl, The OviUiao, 292 

Elevy. Imitated from Akensidc. 58 

Elcyy on u Lady who died iu early youth, \ 


Eminent Characters, Sonnets to, 68 

Eolian Harp, The, 92 

Epigrams, &c., 435 

Epilogue to " The Rash Conjurer," 453 

Epitaph [on himself], 431, 452 

Epitaph on a bad INlan, 442 

Epitaph on a mercenary Miser, 449 

Epitaphium Testamentarium, 405 

Erskine, Sonnet to, 68 

Euclid in Rhyme, 28 

Evening Star, To the, 12 

Exchange, The, 2 S3 

Faded Flower, The, 64 

Falconer's Shipwreck, To a Lady with, 370 

Fancy in nubibus, 380 

Farewell to Love, 349 

Fears in Solitude, 219 

Fielding's " Amelia," With, 35 

Fire, Famine, and Slaughter, 201 

First Advent of Love, 388 

Fortune, To, 50 

Foster-Mother's Tale, The, 147 

France : an Ode, 216 

French Revolution, To a young Lady with a Poem on the, 61 

Friend, To a young, on his proposing to domesticate with the 

Author, III 
Friend together with an Unfinished Poem, To a, 67 
Friend who died of a Frenzy Fever, Lines on a, 65 
Friend who had declared his Intention of writing no more 

Poetry, To a, 109 
Friends, The Three Sorts of, 425 
Frost at Midnight, 206 

Garden of Boccaccio, The, 413 
Genevieve, 22 
Gentle Look, The, 23 
Gentleman [Woixlsworth], To a, 351 
German, From the, 280 
German Poet, From an old, 450 
German Student's Album, Lines in a, 438 
Glycine's Song in Zapolya, 372 
Godwin, Sonnet to W.., 72 

H., To the Rev. W. J., 88 

Happiness, 25 

Happy Husband, The, 341 

Harcourt, Epitaph on Walter, 443 

Hexameters addressed to W. and D. Wordsworth, 275 

Homeric Hexameter, The, 291 


Home-sick. 285 

Honour, 23 

Hour-glass, The, 452 

Hour when we shall meet again. The, 94 

House-dog's Collar, For a, 448 

Human Life, On the Denial of Immortality, 371 

Humility the Mother of Charity, 426 

Hymn, A, 370 

Hymn before Sunrise, in the Vale of Chamouni, 335 

Hymn to the Earth, 288 

Imitation, On, 25 

Improvisatore, The. 407 

Infant, Epitaph on an [" Ere sin could blight "]. 60 

Infant. Epitaph on an [" Its balmy lips"j, 116 

Infant, To an, 105 

Infant which died be 'ore Baptism, On an, 284 

Inscription for a Fountain on a Heath, 339 

Inscription for a Time-piece, 426 

Inscription in Xcthcr-btowey Church, Translation of, 142 

Inside the Coach, 13 

Invocation, An. 367 

Irvin7, To Edward, 389 

Israel's lament, 378 

Job's Luck, 278 
Julia, 4 

Kavser of Kascrrtcrth, To the younp Artist, 430 

Keepsake, The, 313 

Kepler, Epigram on, 453 

' King's Arms," Ross. Lines written [at, 56 

Kiss, The, 49 

Kisses, 38 

Knight's Tomb, The. 377 

Koskiusko, Sonnet to, 71 1 

Kubla Khan, 2O5 

L.. Esq., Lines to W., 151 

La Favette. Sdnnet to, 7(1 

Lady offended by a sportive observation, To a, 364 

Late Marriage, On a. 435 

Lesbia. To (Catullus). 53 

Lewti, or the Circassian Lovc-Chaunt, 213 

Life. 15 

Limbo. 375 

Lime-tree Bower my Prison. This, 145 

Lloyd, Sonnet to Charles, 117 

Love, 2q8 

Love and Friendship opposite. 423 

Love, .1 Sword. 3c)c) 

Love, Hope, and I'atiengc in Education, 421 


Lover's Resolution, The Picture, or the, 327 
Love's Apparition and Evanishment, 428 
Love's Burial-Place, 429 
Luther de Diabohs, On, 457 

Mahomet, 290 

Melancholy : a Fragment, 198 

IVIelancholy Letter, Lines to a Friend in Answer to a, 51 

Metrical Feet, a Lesson for a Boy, 350 

Moles, 375 

j\Ionk, The Mad, 321 

Monody on a Tea-Kettle, 8 

Monody on the Death of Chatterton, 16 

Morgan, To Mrs., and her Sister, 358 

Moriens Superstiti, 54 

Morienti Superstes, 54 

yitjpoao<pia, or Wisdom in Folly, 449 

Motto for a Transparency, 454 

Muse, To the, 6 

Music, 1 1 

Musical Critic, To a, 437 

My Godmother's Beard, 453 

Names, 282 

Narcissus, To a certain Modern, 444 

Nature, To, 373 

Ne plus ultra, 398 "^ 

Necessity the Mother of Fashion, 436 

Nehemiah Higginbottom, Sonnets of, 152 

Nightingale, The, A Conversation Poem, 225 

Nightingale, To the, 89 

Night-Scene, The, 367 

Ninathoma, The Complaint of, 36 

Nonsense Sapphics, 456 

Nose, The, 5 

Not at Home, 423 

Old Man of the Alps, 208 
Ossian, Imitated from, 3^ 
Otter, Sonnet to the River, 39 
Ottfried, Translation from, 283 
Outcast, The, 64 
Ovidian Elegiac Metre, The, 292 

Pain, 21 

Pains of Sleep, The, 343 

Pang more sharp than all. The, 354 

Pantisocracy, On the Prospect of Establishing, 87 

Parent, To a Proud, 438 

Parliamentary Oscillators, 199 

2 G 


Phantom, 346 

Phantom or Fact ? 424 

Picture, The, or the Lover's Resolution, 327 

Pitt, Sonnet on, 73 

Pity, 89 

Pixies, Songs of the, 42 

Poetical Frapments, 271 

Poet's Prayer, The, 437 

Pondere non numero, 445 

Poole, Metrical Epistle to Thomas, 436 

Poverty, To, 87 

Premiers and First Consuls, A Hint to, 444 

Priestley, Sonnet on, 69 

Primrose, To a, 107 

Profuse Kindness, 420 

Progress of Vice, 10 

Psyche, 365 

Published, To one who, in Print what had been entrusted to him 

by my Fireside, 447 
Pye, To Mr., 44 i 

Rain, An Ode to the, 332 

Raven. The, 211 

Reader of his own Verses, On a, 438 

Reason for Love's Blindness, 364 

Recantation, illustrated in the Story of the Mad Ox, 267 

Recantation, The i.e., "France: an Ode "J, 216 

Recollections of Love, 357 

Reflections on having left a place of Retirement, 102 

Religious Musings, 75 

Reproof and Reply, The, 386 

Reviewers, 454 

Reward of the Just, The, 339 

Revisiting the Sea-shore, On, 159 

Riieinwein. 419 

" Robbers, The." To the Author of, 66 

Rose, The, 37 

Ruined House in a romantic Country, On a, 152 

Saddleback, A Tliought suggested by a \'iew of, 315 

Sancti Dominici Pallium, a Dialogue, 396 

Scliillcr. Sonnet to, 66 

School for College. Sonnet on quitting, 31 

Sea-shore, On revisiting the. 320 

Sentimental, 456 

Separation. 3O3 

Sheridan. Sonnet to R. U., 71 

Siiurton Bars, Lines written at, 99 

Sibylline Leaf, A, 374 

Siddons. Sonnet to Mrs., 73 

Sigii. Tlie, 55 


Silver Thimble, The, 97 

Simplicity, To, 152 

Singer, On a Bad, 441 

Sir Rubicund Naso, On, 440 

Sister's Death was inevitable. On receiving an Account that his 

only, 13 
Sisters, To Two, 358 

Something childish, but very natural, 284 
Song, ex improviso, 420 
Song from Piccolomini, 312 
Song from Zapolya, 373 

Sonnet composed on a journey Homeward, 114 
Sonnet to a Friend who asked how I felt when the Nurse first 

presented my Infant to me, 115 
Sonnets attempted in the Manner of Contemporary Writers, 151 
Sonnets on receiving news of the Birth of a Son, 114 
Sonnets to Eminent Characters, 68 
Southey, Sonnet to Robert, 72 
Spenser, Lines in the Manner of, 91 
Spring in a Village, Tines to a beautiful, 40 
Stanhope, Sonnet to Earl, 74 
Starling, The Death of the [Catullus], 53 
Stranger Minstrel, A, 316 

Suicide's Argument, The, and Nature's Answer, 365 
Sun, Spots in the, 451 
Supper, Written after a Walk before, 34 

Talleyrand to Lord Grenville, 307 

Tears of a grateful People, 381 

Tell's Birthplace, 273 

The Hour when we shall meet again, 94 

Three Graves, The, 153 ' . 

Time, Real and Imaginary, 366 

Time-piece, Inscription for a, 426 

To be forgiven for Fame, 354 j 

Tombless Epitaph, A, 361 , 

Tooke, Verses addressed to J. Home, .108 j 

Tranquillity, Ode to, 314 

Translation of a Passage in Ottfried's Gospel, 283 i 

Translation of Wrangham's Hendecasyllabi, 59 

Translation of a Latin Distich, 446 '"\ 

True Self-knowledge, 426 

Two Founts, The, 402 

Two round Spaces on the Tombstone, The, 318 

Ubi Thesaurus ibi Cor, 200 

Unfortunate Woman at the Theatre, To an, 139 

Unfortunate Woman whom the Author had known in the Days 

of her Innocence, To an, 138 
Unwilling Witness, An, 402 


Ver Perpetuum, 106 

Verses to Miss A. T., 421 

Village, Lines to a beautiful Spring in a, 40 

Virgin's Cradle Hymn, The, 364 

Visionary Hope, The. 362 

Visit of the Gods, The, 279 

Wanderings of Cain, The, 257 
Water Ballad, 281 
Welsh, Imitated from the, 56 
Westphalian Song, 281 
What is Life ? 346 
What is Reason ? 381 
Wills of the Wisp. The. 444 
Witness, An unwilling, 401 

Wordsworth, To William, Composed on the night after his reci- 
tation of a poem on the Growth of an Individual Mind, 351 
Work without Hope, 412 

Young Ass, To a, 63 

Young Lady, To a, on her Recovery from a Fever, 205 

Yoiing Lady, To a vain, 448 

Young man of Fortune, Addressed to a, 116 

Youth affectionately welcomed by a Sister, On seeing a, 33 

Youth and Age, 385 


A BIRD, who for his other sins, 399 
A blessed lot hath he, who having passed, 142 
A green and silent spot, amid the hills, 219 
" A heavy wit shall hang at every lord," 457 
A joke (cries Jack) without a sting. 441 
A little further, O my father, 258 
A long deep lane, 272 

Along this glade was Anna wont to rove, 12 
A lovely form there sate beside my bed, 474 
A mount, not wearisome and bare and steep, 1 1 1 
A poor benighted Pedlar knock'd, 449 
A sunny shaft did I behold, 372 
A sworded man whose trade is blood, 363 
Ah ! cease thy tears and sobs, my little Life ! 105 
Ah ! not by Cam or Isis, famous streams, 370 
All are not born to soar — and ah ! how few, 25 
All look and likeness caught from earth, 346 
All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair, 412 
All thoughts, all passions, all delights, 298 
Almost awake ? Why, what is this, and whence, 199 
An evil spirit's on thee, friend ! of late ! 446 
An excellent adage commands that we should, 452 
An Ox, long fed with musty hay, 267 
.\nd this place our forefathers made for men ! 1 50 
And this reft house is that the which he built, 152 
As Dick and I at Charing Cross were walking, 440 
As I am rhymer, 419 

As late each flower that sweetest blows, -tfj 
As late I journey'd o'er the extensive plain, 15 
As late I lay in Slumber's shadowy vale, 69 
As late on Skiddaw's mount I lay supine, 316 
As oft mine eye with careless glance, 97 
As when a child on some long winter's night, 73 
As when far off the warbled strains are heard, 70 
At midnight by the stream I roved, 213 
Auspicious Reverence ! Hush all meaner song, 118 




Away, those cloudy looks, that labouring sigh, 51 

" Be, rather than be call'd. a child of God." 284 

Beneath the blaze of a tropical sun, 347 

Beneath yon birch with silver bark, 230 

Britons ! when last ye met, with distant streak, 108 

By many a boo! y's vengeance bit, 436 grave or merry, at no lie would stick, 446 
Charles ! my slow heart was only sad, when first, 115 
Child of my muse ! in Barbour's gentle hand, 422 
"Come hither, gently rowing," 281 
Come ; your ojiinion of my manuscript ! 449 
Cupid, if storying Legends tell aright, 38 

Dear Charles I whilst yet thou wert a babe, 1 ween, 109 

Dear native Brook ! wild Streamlet of the West ! 39 

Deep in tlie guiph of Vice and Woe, 10 

Depart in joy from this world's noise and strife, 142 

Didst thou think less of thy dear self, 448 

Dim Hour ! that sleep'st on pillowing clouds afar. 94 

Do call, dear Jess, whene'er my way you come, 444 

Do you ask what the birds say ? The Sparrow, the Dove, 

Dormi, Jcsu ! Mater ndet, 364 
Due to the Staggerers that made drunk by Power, 272 

Each Bond Street buck conceits, unhappy elf ! 450 

Earth ! thou mother of numberless children, the nurse and the 

mother, 288 
Edmund ! thy grave with aching eye I scan, 65 
Encincturcd with a twine of leaves, 258 
Ere on my bed my limbs I lay, 343 
Ere on my bcil my limbs I lay, 360 
Ere Sin could blight or Sorrow fade, 60 
I-'rc the birth of my life, if I wish'd it or no, 365 
Ell ! Dei vices gereus, ipse Diviis, 376 

Farewf.ll, parental scenes ! a sad farewell ! 31 
Farewell, sweet Love ! yet blame you not my truth, 349 
" Fie, Mr. Coleridge ! — and can this be you ? " 386 
Fond, peevish, wedded j)air ! why all this rant ? 457 
Frail creatures are we all I To be the best. 426 
Friend of the wise I and Teacher of the Gocxl ! 351 
Friend pure of heart and (<'rvent I we have learnt. 381) 
Friends should be wciijJi'J, not lold : who boasts to have won, 

44 .> 
From his brimstone bed at break of day, 292 
From me, Aurclia ! you desired. 448 
From Kufus' eye sly Cupitl shot his dart. 435 


From the Miller's mossy wheel, 273 

Gently I took that which ungently came, 427 

Fi'iodi aeavTov ! — and is this the prime, 436 

God be with thee, gladsome Ocean 1 320 

God's child in Christ adopted, — Christ my all, 430 

Good Candle, thou that with thy brother. Fire, 451 

Grant me a patron, gracious Heaven 1 whene'er, 437 

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star, 335 

He too has flitted from his secret nest, 354 

Hear, my beloved, an old Milesian story ! 291 

Hear, sweet spirit, hear the spell, 367 

Heard'st thou yon universal cry, 7 

Hence, soul-dissolving JIarmony, 1 1 

Hence that fantastic wantonness of woe, 116 

Her attachment may differ from yours in degree, 423 

Here lies the Devil — ask no other name, 446 

Here sleeps at length poor Col., and without screaming, 

Here's Jem's first copy of nonsense verses, 456 
Hippona lets no silly flush, 438 
Hoarse Mtevius reads his hobbling verse, 438 
How long will ye round me be swelling, 36 
How seldom, friend ! a good great man inherits, 339 
How sweet, when crimson colours dart, 301 
How warm this woodland wild recess ! 357 
Hush 1 ye clamorous Cares ! be mute ! 88 

I ASKED my fair one happy day, 282 

I have heard of reasons manifold, 364 

I heard a voice from Etna's side, 321 

I hold of all our viperous race, 44 1 

I know it is dark ; and though I have lain, 332 

I mix in life, and labour to seem free, 200 

I never saw the man whom you describe, 147 

I note the moods and feelings men betray, 396 

I sigh, fair injur' d stranger 1 for thy fate, 117 

I stood on Brocken's sovran height, and saw, 286 

I too a sister had ! too cruel Death ! 33 

I touch this scar upon my skull behind, 458 

If dead, we cease to be ; if total gloom, 371 

Tf I had but two little wings, 284 "^ 

If Love be dead, 429 

If Pegasus will let thee only ride him, 28 

If the guilt of all lying consists in deceit, 439 

If thou wert here, these tears were tears of light, 287 

Tf while my passion I impart, 56 

Imagination ; honourable aims, 348 

In darkness I remain'd — the neighbour's clock. 272 

In Kohln, a town of monks and laones, 419 


In manv ways docs the full heart reveal, 401 

In Spain, that land of Monks and Apes. 419 

In the hexameter rises the fountain's silvery column, 292 

In vain I praise thee. Zoilus ! 448 

In vain we supplicate the Powers above 429 

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan, 265 

Is't returned as 'twas sent ? Is't no worse for the wear ? 365 

It is an ancient Mariner. i6q 

It may indeed be phantasy when I. 373 

It was some Spirit. Sheridan ! that breath'd, 71 

Its balmj- lips the infant blest. ti6 

Jack drinks fine wines, wears modish clothing, 439 
Jack tindinq gold left a rope on the ground, 454 
Jack Stripe, 4<;5 

Jem writes his verses with more speed, 439 
Julia was blest with Beauty, Wit, and Grace, 4 

Kavser ! to whom, as to a second self, 430 

Know'st thou the land where the pale citrons grow, 281 

Last Monday all the papers said, 439 

Late, late yestreen 1 saw the new Sloon. 322 

Let us not blame him : for against such chances, 354 

Light cargoes waft of modulated sound, 271 

Like a lone Arab, old and blind, 428 

Little Miss Fanny, 458 

Love would remain the same if true. 406 

Low in a barren vale I see thee sit. 87 

Low was our pretty Cot : our tallest rose. 102 

Lunatic Witch-fires ! Ghosts of Li^ht and Motion ! 4 14 

MAinr.N. that with sullen brow, 130 

Maid of my Love, sweet Gem-vieve ! 22 

Maid of unboastful charms ! whom white-robed Truth, 59 

Mark this holy chapel well ! 273 

Matilda ! 1 have heard a sweet tune ]^lay'd. 337 

Mild Spl^^ndour of the various-vested Night ! 2 

Most can('.i(l critic, what if I. 4.15 

Mourn. Israel ! Sons of Israel, mourn ! 378 

Much on my early youth I love to dwell. 6t 

My eyes make pictures, when they arc shut, 3.^1 

My father confessor is strict and holy. 4U 

My heart has tiiank'd thee, Howies ! for those soft strains, 70 

My Lesbia. k-t us love and live. 53 

My Lord ! though your Lortlship repel deviation, 30S 

My Maker ! of thy power the trace, 370 

My Merry men all, that drink with glee, 4.^3 

My pensive Sara ! tliy soft cheek reclined. 02 

Myrtle-leaf that, ill besped, 13S 


Nav, dearest Anna ! why so grave ? 364 

Near the lone pile with ivy overspread, 58 

Never, believe me, 279 

No cloud, no relique of the sunken day, 225 

No more 'twixt conscience staggering and the Pope, 404 

No mortal spirit yet had clomb so high, 453 

No private grudge they need, no personal spite, 454 

Nor cold, nor stern, my soul ! yet I detest, 296 

Nor ti-avels my meandering eye, 99 

Not always should the tear's ambrosial dew, 72 

Not hers To win the sense by words of rhetoric, 374 

Not, Stanhope ! with the Patriot's doubtful name, 74 

Now ! it is gone. — Our brief hours travel post, 426 

O FAIR is Love's first hope to gentle mind ! 388 

O form'd t' illume a sunless world forlorn, 72 

O 1 I do love thee, meek Simplicity ! 152 

O ! it is pleasant with a heart at ease, 380 

O leave the lily on its stem, 229 

O meek attendant of Sol's setting blaze, 12 

O Muse who sangest late another's pain, 8 

O Peace, that on a lilied bank dost love, 91 

O think, fair maid, these sands that pass, 452 

O thou wild Fancy, check thy wing ! No mor*^, 46 

O what a loud and fearful shriek was there, 71 

O what a wonder seems the fear of Death, 16 

O would the Baptist come again, 441 

O ! — O ! — of you we complain, 437 

O'er the raised earth the gales of Evening sigh, i 

O'er wayward childhood would'st thou hold firm rule, 421 

Of him that in this gorgeous tomb doth lie, 442 

Of late, in one of those most weary hours, 413 

Of smart pretty fellows in Bristol are numbers, some, 435 

Oft, oft methinks, the while with thee, 341 

Oft o'er my brain does that strange fancy roll, 114 

Old Age, the shape and messenger of Death, 272 

Old Harpy jeers at castles in the air, 447 

On stern Blencartha's perilous height, 315 

On the broad mountain-top, 272 

On the wide level of a mountain's head, 366 

On wide or narrow scale shall Man, 25 

Once could the Morn's first beams, the healthful breeze, 21 

Once more, sweet Stream ! with slow foot wandering near, 

One kiss, dear Maid ! I said and sigh'd, 49 
Oppressed, confused, with grief and pain, 381 
Our English poets, bad and good, agree, 450 

Pains ventral, subventral, 458 

Pale Roamer through the night ! thou poor Forlorn ! 64 

Parry seeks the Polar ridge ■ 45 5 


Pass under Jack's window at twelve at night, 445 
Pensive at eve on the hard world I mus'd, 151 
Perish warmth unfaithful to its seeming ! 458 
Phidias changed marble into feet and legs, 466 
Pity ! mourn in plaintive tone, 53 
Poor little foal of an oppressed race I 63 
Promptress of unnumher'd sighs, 50 

QUi^i linquam, aut nihil, aut nihili, aut vix sunt mea. Sordes, 

Repeating such verse as Bowles, 436 

Resembles life what once was deem'd of light, 346 

Richer than Miser o'er his countless hoards, 56 

Sad lot. to have no Hope ! Though lowly kneeling, 362 

Said William to Edmund, I can't guess the reason, 436 

Scarce any scandal, but has a handle, 447 

Schiller 1 that hour I would have wish'd to die, 66 

Seraphs ! aroun<l th' Ettrnal's seat who throng, 3 

She gave with joy her virgin breast, 283 

Since all that beat about in Nature's range, 345 

Sister of love-lorn Poets, Philomel ! 89 

Sisters ! sisters ! who sent you here ? 201 

Sleep, sweet babe ! my cares beguiling, 364 

Sly Beelzebub took all occasions. 2j'i 

So great the charms of Mrs. Monday, ^53 

Sole Positive of Night ! 398 

Southey I thy melodies steal o'er mine ear, 72 

Speak out, Sir 1 you're safe, for so rudtly your nose, 440 

Spirit who sweepest the wild Harp of Time ! 133 

Splendour's fondly fostered child ! 302 

Stop, Christian passer-by ! — Stop, child of God, 431 

Stranger ! whose eyes a look of Jiity show, 208 

Stretched on a mouldered Abbey's broadest wall, 198 

Strongly it bears us along in swelling and limitless billows, 

Swans sing before they die — 'twere no bad thing, ^40 
Sweet Flower ! that peeping from thy russet stem, 105 
Sweet Mercy 1 how my very heart has bled, 89 

Tkll me, on what holy ground, 57 
Tiiat darling of the Tragic Muse, (x) 
That France has put us oft to rout, 450 
That Jealousy may riile a mind, 423 
" The angel's like a Ilea." 4^7 
The Hutterlly the ancient (Irecians made. 365 
'I he cloud iloth gather, the vrcenwooil roar, 312 
The Devil believes tliat the f.oril will come. 318 
J he early year's fast-Jlying vapours stray, 106 



The fervid Sun had more than halv'd the day, 23 

The Frost performs its secret ministry, 206 

The grapes npon the Vicar's wall, 155 

The hour-bell sounds, and I must go, 54 

The indignant Bard compos'd this furious ode, 14 

The piteous sobs that choke the virgin's breath, 117 

The Poet in his lone yet genial hour, 313 

The rose that blushes like the morn, 456 

The shepherds went their hasty way, 305 

The solemn-breathing air is ended, 52 

The stream with languid murmur creeps, 35 

The Sun (for now his orb 'gan slowly sink), 272 

" The Sun is not yet risen," 389 

The sunshine lies on the cottage-wall, 273 

The swallows, 272 

The tear which mourn'd a Brother's fate scarce dry, 13 

The tedded hay, the first fruits of the soil, 313 

There comes from old Avaro's grave, 440 

They shrink in as moles, 375 

This day among the faithful placed, 140 

This, Hannah Scollock 1 may have been the case, 453 

This is now — this was erst, 29 

This is the time, when most divine to hear, 75 

This Sj'camore, oft inusical with bees, 339 

This way or that, ye Powers above me 1 457 

Though much averse, dear Jack, to flicker^ 34 

Tho' no bold flights to thee belong, 6 

Thou bleedest, my poor Heart ! and thy distress, 61 

Thou gentle Look, that didst my soul beguile, 38 

Though friendships differ endless i)i degree, 425 

Though Miss 's match is a subject of mirth, 435 

Though, rous'd by that dark Vizir, Riot rude, 69 

Though veiled in spires of myrtle-wreath, 399 

Three truths should make thee often think and pause, 444 

Through weeds and thorns, and matted underwood, 327 

Thus far my scanty brain hath built the rhyme, 67 

Thy babes ne'er greet thee with the father's name, 438 

Thy lap-dog, Rufa, is a dainty beast, 440 

Thy smiles I note, sweet early flower, 107 

'Tis a strange place, this Limbo ! — not a Place, 375 

'Tis hard on Bagshot Heath to try, 13 

'Tis mine and it is likewise yours, 446 

'Tis not the lily-brow I prize, 420 

'Tis sweet to him who all the week, 285 

'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock, 235 

'Tis true, Idoloclastes Satyrane ! 361 

To know, to esteem, to love — and then to part, 358 

To praise men as good, and to take them for such, 420 

To wed a fool, I really cannot see, 445 

Tom Slothful talks, as slothful Tom beseems, 449 

Tranquillity ! thou better name, 314 


Trochee trips from Ioiik to short, 350 

'Twas my last waking thought, how it could be, 402 

'Twas sweet to know it only possible, 273 

Two things hast thou made known to half the nation, 447 

Unboastful Bard ! whose verse concise yet clear, 95 
Unchanged within, to sec all changed without, 402 
Under this stone does Walter Harcourt he, 443 
Underneath a huce oak tree, 211 
Ungrateful he, who pluck'd thee from thy stalk, 64 
Unperishing youth I 278 
Up, up ! ye dames, and lasses gay ! 373 

Utter the song, O my soul ! the flight and return of Mohammed, 

Verse, a breeze mid blossoms straying, 385 

Verse, pictures, music, tlioughts both grave and gay, 421 

Virtues and Woes alike too great for man, 35 

We ask and urge — (here ends the story !), 452 
Wc botli attended the same College, 438 
We pledged our hearts, my love and I, 283 
Well ! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made, 322 
Well, they are gone, and here must I remain, 14; 
We've con()U(T'd us a Peace, like lads true metalled, 434 
We've fouglit for Peace, and conquer'd it at last, 454. 
What a spring-tide of I.ovc to dear friends in a shoal ! 420 
What is an ICpigram ? a dwarfish whole. 446 
What thougli tlie chilly wide-mouth'd quacking chorus, 395 
When British I-rccdom for a happier land, 6S 
When Surface talks of otlur jieople's worth, 451 
When tliey did greet me fatiier. sudden awe, 114 
When thieves come, I bark : when gallants, I am still, 448 
When thou to my true-love comcst, 281 
When Youth his faery reign began. 55 
Wiiene'er the mist, tliat stands 'twixt God and thee, 381 
Where Cam his stealthy tUnvings most dissembles, 272 
Where grac'd with many a classic spoil. 32 
Where is the grave of Sir .Arthur O'Kellyn ? 377 
Where true Love burns, Di-sire is Love's pure llame, 3S8 
While my young cheek retains its healthful hues, 151 
Whilst jialc ,\nxi(ty, corrosive Care, 87 
Wiiom the untaught Shepherds call, 42 

Wliy need 1 say, Louisa d^ar I 205 1 

Wiiiiam, my teacher, my Iriend ! dear William ami dear Doro- j 

thca I 275 I 

With Donne, whose muse on dromedary trots. 380 
With many a jiause and oft reverted eye. 90 
Witiiin these circling hollies, wootlbinc clad, 344 


Ye Clouds ! that far above me float and pause, 216 

Ye drinkers of Stingo and Nappy so free, 442 

Ye souls unus'd to lofty verse, 5 

Yes, noble old Warrior ! this heart has beat hign, 277 

Yes, yes ! that boon, life's richest treat, 410 

Yet art thou happier far than she, 54 

Yon row of bleak and visionary pines, 374 

You come from o'er the waters, 425 

You loved the daughter of Don Manrique ? 367 

Your Poem must eternal be, 441 




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